


Probably the Poetry

by cuddlepunk



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Anorexia, Body Image, Body Worship, Books, Bulimia, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insecurity, Kinda, Library AU, M/M, Masturbation, Reading, Self Harm, Smut, VERY GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE, Weight Issues, Winter, Writer AU, Writing, im so sorry, petes a mopey famous author and patricks a cute library intern, pro anorexia, rlly delayed comfort, there will be cuddles and kisses i promise, this one is actually good, this thing is a trainwreck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-05-17 18:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlepunk/pseuds/cuddlepunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I never planned it would get this out of hand. Writing always came naturally to me, something that was clearly my strongest talent all the way back in elementary. But millions of fans? Incredible expectations? The amount of fanfiction I’ve found on my characters is utterly shocking. I’m seen as the greatest writer of the century, and I just don’t see it. </p><p>Noticing my confusion, one of the librarians calls me over. “Hey, need any help?” Oh man, this kid is cuter than the library. “The poetry, I’m assuming? You look like the type.”</p><p>He’s wearing a burgundy cardigan and wide rimmed glasses, honey cinnamon hair poking out underneath a black hat and swiped behind his ears. “Yeah, could you point me in the right direction?” Am I blushing? Oh my god, I’m a millionaire writer, and I’m blushing at the saccharine librarian. I’m so uncool.</p><p>Or, Pete's a writer and Patrick's a librarian who doesn't know he's falling in love with his favorite author.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pretty Boys and Tragedies

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS GONNA BE GOOD I SWEAR IM GONNA FINISH IT AND ITLLBE BEAUTIFUL JUST TRUST ME
> 
> this is a work of fiction and i dont own patrick or pete or fall out boy or anything dont share this with anyone involved in fob you get it
> 
> itll get gay and cute i swear

I never planned it would get this out of hand. Well, I suppose I didn’t work my ass off in school and go through years of college to be unpopular, but it never crossed my mind that hiding the name at the base of my books would be a problem. Writing always came naturally to me, something that was clearly my strongest talent all the way back in elementary. It’s a clear line of action, something that was obviously obtainable. I spent hours a day hunched over books and scribbling down ideas, not for a second putting down my pen. The amount of work I put into getting this far was proof enough that I was serious about being an author. But millions of fans? Incredible expectations? The amount of fanfiction I’ve found on my characters is utterly shocking. I’m seen as the greatest writer of the century, and I just don’t see it. 

Hiding who I am came just as naturally as writing after that point. I never want to be crowded with fans, or deal with disappointment with how I look. Fame is clawing at my feet and I’m pushing it back with a stick. I’m not cut out for endless admiration and interviews. I’m just a writer.

Which isn’t to say I don’t appreciate my fans. Quite the contrary. I love their creativity and loyalty, their fan mail brightens my day, and I would be nowhere without them. I adore them, which makes hiding even more bittersweet. I do my best to write back though, I really do. 

I still write everyday, even though the final novel of my third series just came out a few weeks ago. Hiding away in the corners of cozy coffee shop corners with my laptop, or filling journal pages in the park, it’s a daily occurrence. I’ve scoped out every area in Chicago, writing thousands of words in the backs of music stores, finishing epilogues in bars, and quickly scribbling down story ideas on the steps to the town hall. Exploring the city is part of the job description at this point. The only place I haven’t gone to is the adorable little library nestled into the suburbs.

The reason for this? The place is way too cute and happy looking for the tone of my books. All of them this far have been deeply moving tragedies, horrible endings for most of the characters. My books are the kinds of books you don’t share with your kids, the kind that will leave tears streaking your face and heartache for weeks. I embrace the darker aspects of writing, gladly slaving away in the grungiest of run down bars and stingy motels. A cheerful little book center is hardly the best environment to breed the poetic lines that I need to keep up my inspiration. However, they’ve started offering slam poetry contests on Friday nights, and it’s not like I’m gonna miss out on that, even if I don’t plan on competing.

So I pull up to the parking lot and park, shoving my hands into the pockets of the worn out hoodie hugging my shoulders. It’s a chilly September evening, frost threatening to freeze off my fingertips and nip at my eyelashes. My breath clouds the air, leaving trails of black coffee and chills from my cracked lips. I hurry inside, the homely place sending waves of heat in my direction. I search for the event, looking for any signs with directions. The place isn’t giant, but it’s winding. 

Noticing my confusion, one of the librarians calls me over. “Hey, need any help?” Oh man, this kid is cuter than the library. “The poetry, I’m assuming? You look like the type.”

He’s wearing a burgundy cardigan and wide rimmed glasses, honey cinnamon hair poking out underneath a black hat and swiped behind his ears. “Yeah, could you point me in the right direction?” Am I blushing? Oh my god, I’m a millionaire writer, and I’m blushing at the saccharine librarian. I’m so uncool.

He closes his book, which I realize is one of my books, and the second in a series, thank you very much, and gestures to one of the many corridors. “Thanks,” I murmur, glancing at my book, “What do you think of that one, by the way?” I point to the novel.

He smiles brightly. “This is going to sound stupid, because he’s everyone’s favorite author, but oh my god, he’s my favorite author. He’s basically the reason I didn’t drop out of highschool. I’ve read every one of his books, this is the third time I’m re reading this series.” He points at the pages in his hands.

He’s so animated and cheerful as he talks, eyes bright and hands moving just as much as lips. It makes my heart melt. “Oh yeah? What do you think of his latest?” 

He licks his cherry lips, something that nearly makes me choke on my breath. “I missed a day of class to read it. It was so good, I loved it, but when Anne died, I cried for the rest of the book. How could he do that, you know? She was the best!” 

I smile darkly. That was a fun death scene to write. “Yeah, but even so, you have to admit that the ending was better than most of his books.”

He places a hand over his heart. “And thank god for that! I love his work, but I can only take so much.” He settles down. “You seem like a true fan. What’s your name?” He blinks his robbin egg blue eyes. 

I swallow hard. “Jason. You?”

He adjusts his glasses. “Patrick. I’ll see you around, Jason.”

“Gladly. Thanks for the help!”

“Anytime.”

I think I’m going to cry, but in a good way. 

###

The poetry was actually pretty good. There was one girl with a really powerful piece about the impacts of global warming on arctic animals with tons of metaphors about broken homes and bullying. It really made me think, I stood up to clap after that one. All of the acts were better than I expected, though. Perfect for inspiration. 

However, my flip flopping stomach seems much more interested in the pretty boy behind the checkout desk. I need an excuse to talk to him…

“Hey, Patrick?” I slide by his desk, trying a little too hard to seem cool. “Do you have any recommendations for tragic love stories?” 

He glances out the door for a second before standing up. Woah, this kid’s even shorter than me. “No one else is coming, I can leave the desk,” He mutters mostly to himself, before leading me to the fiction section. 

His soft hands scan over bookshelf after bookshelf, fingernails catching some of the covers here and there. “Are you looking for deep, metaphorical, dark ones? Or, like, ‘but I love him daddy’ kinds?” 

I scoff at his teenage girl impression “The former, please.” 

A few books are de shelved and handed to me, mostly with daring and edgy titles. He pulls me along, almost dancing through the aisles as his eyes dart around author names and novels. He thinks deeply for a moment before placing one more book in my arms. “Those are the best of what I’ve read. Tell me what you think about the last one, it’s one of my favorites.” I make a mental note to definitely read that book first.

He glances at all of the books in my arms before meeting my eyes. “Do you have a library card here?” He asks.

“Not yet, sorry.” He breezes past me, the soft scent of vanilla and chocolate coffee basically blowing me away. I probably smell like last week’s laundry and mildew. 

I follow him back, surprisingly without dropping any of my books. I set the stack down on the desk as soon as I can. He brings up the computer.

“Last name?”

I think for a moment. “Bliss.” That sounds cool.

“Jason Bliss? Nice name. Phone number?” He asks, lightly blushing.

I give him my number before he hands me a card and signs out my books. “Did you enjoy the poetry? I only heard some of it from the desk.”

I nod “It was really good. I go to a lot of open mic nights and poetry events, and the people here are really talented. Maybe it’s the small size, makes people more comfortable.”

“Yeah, this is one of the few places I’ll actually perform at without breaking a sweat. I do open mics sometimes. You?”

“I can play a some bass, a little guitar, but I can’t sing. I’m more of a lyrical guy, I’ve done a few slams. It’s really cool that you do that, though. What do you play?”

He slides my books over to me and plays with the sleeves of his cardigan. “Drums are my forte, but I usually play acoustic and do a little singing, even though I’m not really any good.”

“I don’t know,” I tease, picking up my books and sliding the card into my pocket. “Your voice is quite melodic. I’d love to see you perform sometime.”

He looks down shyly. “You should come by for the events again, then.”

I smile. “Of course, I’m on it. Thanks Patrick!”

“No problem.”

###

I arrive home with an armful of books, a blush on my cheeks, and a giant burst of imagination. The words almost flow out of me and onto a document, something that hasn’t happened in a while. I’ve written more than ten pages when I stop to get some tea. The cutie at the library really gets my inspiration flowing, I think. Or maybe it was the poetry. Yeah, it was totally the poetry…

I’m so going to the next open mic night.


	2. Tickets and Tones

It’s seven in the morning by the time I’ve completely drained all the creative energy out of myself. My greasy black hair is incredibly greasy at this point, so I force myself into the shower before I inevitably black-out in my bed. My breath tastes like gross black tea and my entire body is stiff from sitting down for so long. Everything hurts and I feel disgusting. 

Hot water streams push back a day’s worth of dirt and calm me down a bit, the steam loosening up what it can. The gross residue is finally scrubbed off my scalp, and I feel like a real human again. 

A shirt and sweatpants are barely able to curl around my body before sleep’s hands wring my neck. Illinois’ blistering sun attempts blinding me while I drift of, like the worried thoughts of those who pretend to care about me. Always there, always bothering me, but never doing any of the good that their intentions promised. The shadowy half moons under my eyes fade off with the edges of exhaustion, all blending into the sheets. Worries bounce off the headboard and responsibilities soak up into the pillows. It’s a well needed rest.

I wake once more at five pm, wiping sleep and leftover eyeliner off my face. The evening greets me with a plate of frozen waffles and a cup of bitter coffee, my own laziness stopping me from actually accomplishing anything. Despite my sleepy disadvantage, I manage to force myself into writing another page and a half before boredom strikes. This means exploration.

The following few days are filled with revisiting old pubs and discovering new holes in walls, letting the filthy air fill my lungs and bring me into a better mindset. It’s a drug in the form of ink stains on tables and fingerprints on mugs, something to keep my hands busy while my mind races ahead. Each turn unlocks a new line, every person I come across adding to the story. Everyone has something to bring to the table. The book is writing itself at this point, feeding off my lack of responsibility. As it is my bad health in which the words grow under, I settle on skipping meals for a few days, writing for days at a time, more pages finished than hours of sleep had in the week.

It helps, in a masochistic way. Getting into a negative mindset allows the floodgates holding back dark ideas to break, splashing onto book covers and notebooks. I feel at home in the far corners of rundown strip clubs, growing up in dangerous apartments and playing with needles for fun. There’s nothing I haven’t tried at this point. Aside, I suppose, from a little happiness. But it’s not like that would ever work. Right?

I’m just simply doing what I know works. There’s nothing wrong about it, despite what anyone says. I wouldn’t be where I am today, be so accomplished, without the self-set strategies I’ve worked out. 

It’s in this deep thought, an idea had on the front porch of a small art boutique, that I realize the open mic night is in just over fifteen minutes. I freak, shoving my pen into my back pocket and holding my binder to my chest, running towards my car. Speed limits are disregarded as fleeting reminders of vanilla chestnut hair and inky glasses bleed into the inside of my skull. The steering wheel is freezing against my fingers, legs stuck still in the cold. 

I’m just below four minutes late, but it seems like a few other people are too. Walking into the homely little library is like a warm hug, blasting the frostbite from the tips of my ears. I find myself sitting down with the crowd, watching a pretty talented girl sing along to a backing track of a Radiohead song. 

The next few acts are okay, some comedy from a frat house looking guy and a two part trumpet piece, but when I see Patrick walk out with a shy expression and an acoustic guitar that’s bigger than he is, I can’t help but smile. He sets up and settles in, adjusting the microphone to his honestly quite adorable height. Or lack thereof.

“So, do we have any Morrissey fans here tonight?” He gets a few claps at that, and a couple of polite ‘whoo’s. “Alright, good.”

He strikes a chord and taps his fist against the guitar softly a few times. “The more you ignore me, the closer I get…”

Harmonic and wide, his voice is much deeper and more skillful than his appearance would lead you to believe. His fingers fly across the frets without hesitation, only once faltering after an (awfully endearing) voice crack. The kind of voice you’d hear on a soul record rather than in a library. This kid is destined for giant stadiums and flashing stage lights, I can feel it. It’s beautiful, absolutely moving, poignant and heartfelt. He’s spot on, beautiful pitch, so captivating that the song seems to pass by far too quickly. 

The song ends softly, with him shying away from the microphone to reduce the sound. Some disgusting part of my mind makes me focus in on his lips around his water bottle as he takes a sip. A really, really disgusting part of me wonders if I could kiss those lips. An even more horrendous part of me devises several plans to get into this kid’s pants before tomorrow… I do my best to bury that part of me so deep in the pockets of my sweatshirt that I’ll never see it again. I won’t see it till I feel it, anyways.

He glances at me and bites his lip through a grin before playing the beginning chords of the next song in a loop. “If you wanna join me on the choruses, that would be nice. I can’t make you do anything though! Don’t hurt me!”

I laugh softly, before a rather upbeat rendition of Love Will Tear Us Apart blooms throughout the room. He plays with a bounce in his step, not holding back on the vocals. Strong voices sound throughout the room at the booming choruses, lively without being overwhelming. He throws his head back and closes his eyes for some of it, an awfully beautiful sight. I find myself nodding the beat, getting lost in the sounds of smooth guitar and suave singing. Gladly giving myself up to the sound, his bubblegum chapstick leaving marks in the back of my mind. It’s good fun, a real treat. 

Bountiful applause is given, and rightfully so, at the end. My mind buzzing with the adrenaline of social activity, a high so uncommon in my life. Patrick makes it feel natural, easy come and easy go. He quiets down before the next song.

“This next one is just a short original, and I don’t really have any lyrics for it yet, so who know’s what’ll happen. It’s the first time I’ve shown it to anyone, so thanks for giving ma a first chance.” He glances down at the neck of his instrument, fingers gingerly pressing down and re-adjusting until he’s somewhat satisfied. 

His pick almost glides against the strings, sending rolling waves of rather somber tones. Seamless transitions and careful concentration, the song is intricate and layered, far from all the simple tunes I’ve ever come up with. Silence falls over the crowd like a thin veil, a feeling of sonder and willing isolation, existing only in a pocket universe. It feels like a late apology, nostalgia and a tightness in the chest. It’s hard to breathe in a poetic way, heavy and personal in a way that’s so hard to find that it’s almost refreshing when you feel it. I think I’m in love.

The audience stays silent for a moment, soaking in the aftermath of such a breathtaking performance. I absorb the feeling, of melancholy and forgiveness, feeling truly centered and aware of my surroundings. Focusing in on every speck of dust under the shitty stage lights, realizing the significance of every person here, feeling myself sink into my seat and down into the ground. And then we all clap. Stand up, yell, forget who we are in the midst of an offbeat celebration. He blushes and bows, stuttering broken thank yous into the staticy microphone and tripping over himself on the way out. 

The rest of the acts couldn’t top him.

###

I catch him after most of the others have left and he’s about to return to his station. “Dude! That was totally awesome!” I bring him into a tight hug, indulging the feeling of my chin nestled in the crook of his neck. He’s a good hug, soft and firm. Probably a better kiss though, with those strawberry lips and that baby soft skin. Okay! Maybe now’s not the time to think about that. “You were amazing, oh my god, you need to jam with me sometime. I could write you lyrics and you could do the melodies! I have friends, we can make a band, Patrick, we need to make a band.”

He plays with my hands for a second before letting go. “I’m usually not that good, I suppose it was just good luck pulling me along, that’s never happened before…”

“Patrick, dang it, give me your phone number. You’re so talented.”

He licks his lips nervously. “I suppose we could try..”


	3. Pounding Hearts and Dry Throats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY IM SO LATE IM SORRY I WAS AAT A FRIENDDS HOUSE WORKING ON COSPLAY AND THEN I HAD A FAMILY PARTY AND I HAVE THREE TESTS THIS WEEK IM SORRY I SWEAR ILL DO BETTER
> 
> I DIDNT EDIT THIS IM SORRY AHHHHHH

“Joe, you gotta trust me on this one, this kid is gold.”

He downs another shot before looking down at his hands. “I don’t doubt you completely.”

I throw my arms up. “You should be glad I’m even sharing this precious information with you!”

The pub’s half empty and eerily filled with background noise. Old picture frames bounce on their walls every time someone steps on the rickety boards making up the floor. The place is dry and ready to collapse, which makes it my kind of place. I scratch the sandy surface of our small table. 

“Look, do a few sessions with him, stitch together a song or two, report back to me and I’ll join you. Alright? I can’t promise anything.” His honestly quite stunning bright turquoise eyes stare blankly at me, unimpressed. 

I relent. “Fine. I guess. I’m gonna make you eat those words.”

He nods. “I’d love to be proven wrong.”

###

Time passes by in units of watered down coffee and bad decisions. I buy a can of spray paint for the hell of it, wonder about the implications of chalkboards, and wonder why it’s okay when other animals lick giant blocks of salt but not when I do it. I wonder if I can spray paint one of my acoustics with chalkboard spray paint and let people draw on it. I start drawing on the back of my hand and let veins and bones evolve into unemployed pieces of art rather than works of art. I decide that window blinds and curtains are works of art and that windows are simply rather misbehaved doors.

Books are in my hands just as much as pens these days, any excuse I can make up to go to that library is a good one at this point, and Patrick’ll swing by after his shift this Thursday. I slid the idea of a band past him a few times, more begging than asking at this point. Tapping into the lyrical part of my mind has been rather difficult, but I’ve managed to string together a few ideas. Hopefully he’ll like it. Even more important, I hope he doesn’t compare them to my other works. 

It’s so cliche that I’m not even going to go into it. Everyone’s heard the spiel on not wanting someone to fall in love with your fame. I’ll be every shining stage light as long as they’re not shining to show off. Forget the papers and embrace the ink. The industry’s a rapist.

Every time I open my mouth, each word is a step up a ladder that I’ll throw myself off of. I don’t need to repeat myself. The media’s done it all for me. Broken record, broken record, broken record. 

###

Patrick’s coming over in two hours and I haven’t cleaned my flat since I moved in two years ago. Not that I really need to, in a way. I wear the same three shirts and it’s not like I actually eat anything. No items are even here to be misplaced, other than pens and papers. It’s a mess, but there’s nothing to clean up. It’s a surreal experience.

Even still, I drink a gallon of black coffee and find the energy to dust off the guitars a little. After much mental complaining and procrastinating, I pull out my nice amps, positioning a cup filled with assorted guitar picks on one of them. My family room (that I never use to be completely honest) is completely turned into a shitty musical capsule, filled with untuned guitars and tangled wires. I take another sip of coffee.

The sharp scent of bleach sears into the back of my throat, dish soap swirling around my mouth, windex burning the cuts on my hands. What I’m saying is that cleaning the kitchen is not fun, even if I’m blasting Anthrax in my earbuds. However, I wouldn’t guess that Patrick would find the tea stains and empty water bottles littering my counters the most chic choice of decor. I guess the thought of him settling his elbows on the granite and laughing with me over a glass of wine, or a mug of sugary decaf, or of pushing him up against a newly polished surface. Or, you know, I could always just not think about that.

I’m waiting for my fourth cup of earl grey to cool when I hear four soft knocks on the other side of my door. Suddenly, every miniscule detail seems off. I adjust my sweater as I walk towards the door, fiddling with my hands and wondering if I should have sprayed the place over with air freshener. 

All insecurities are easily brushed off with the calming sight of smiling baby blues and blood red lips. I’m pretty sure just the sight of him knocked the air out of me. I let him in, guiding him to the room I shall now call The Music Room™, and nearly trip over myself in doing so.

He unwraps a navy blue knitted scarf from around his neck. “This place is immaculate, jeez. Please tell me you didn’t clean for me.”

I panic. “Nah, I don’t really do anything in here. Most of my day is spent either slaving away on the computer in my room or exploring the city.”

“Is that what you do all day? Must be pretty serious to have a place like this.” He opens his guitar case and pulls his guitar into his lap, playing with the pegs.

I shrug. “Kind of. I work a lot with book publishing and organizing editors with writers, and I dabble in writing. No big deal.” It’s not like I’m lying. Just… rightfully leaving a key part out.

“Whatever you say, man. Do you wanna work on some covers or get right into songwriting?”

“I’d like to warm up a little, yeah. Then I’ll hand over the shitty lyrics I pulled together and we can try to salvage some of it, if you want. I can’t promise anything, though.” I bite the inside of my cheek, picking up a bass and hooking it up to an amp.

He smiles softly and nods. “Sure, alright.” Strumming a few offhand chords and adjusting a string or two, he starts tapping out a beat. “Can you play Helter Skelter?”

“Damn straight I can.”

The neck of a bass finds it’s home in my hand, settling back into place. I relax into the beat, let Patrick’s voice roll through my mind. He naturally fits himself into the beat of my parts, working so fluidly at something so difficult. It’s quite amazing to watch, even more captivating to be a part of. We work well together, I find. A controlled but creative dynamic.

A few covers later, we’re waist deep in picking through lyrics, creating bits and pieces of original content. He’s focused and on point, allowing only the best of ideas onto the table. My mind is on overdrive, following ten melodies at once, considering all aspects at the same time. Writing’s never come so easily. He’s nibbling at the pick stuck between his teeth while his hands work out systems of notes, mind working on so many different levels. With some furious strumming and mind numbing repetitions, we’ve worked out a pretty good first draft. 

Even when Patrick’s voice is rubbed raw from going through all variations of vocal selections, when my hands are aching and eyes dry with overwork, we’re still ready to rock and roll. However, I can’t let my star’s brightness dim. “Patrick, do you want to take a break?”

He sighs. “I don’t want to, but I probably should.”

I nod, turning off my amp and setting my bass down, returning my guitar pick to it’s place and wringing my hands. “Want some water?”

I don’t let him respond before I step into the kitchen, pouring two glasses of ice water and handing one to him when he follows shortly after. “You’re really talented, you know that?”

He blushes, taking another sip before responding. “I guess. Thanks. You’re awesome too, those lyrics were totally novel.” His lips burst with color where the water’s touched them. I can feel my heart beating in my ears.

It’s silent besides our soft breathing and the tinkling of the ice. “Just doing my job.” I swallow, looking him in the eyes for a moment before placing my gaze on his fingers around the glass. I set mine down, biting down on my lower lip.

His skin looks almost luminescent under the light of Chicago sunsets, he steps closer to me as I find myself wondering if I can lean in. I almost feel his breath on my neck. My stomach has stopped flip flopping and has settled for leaving me with no feeling at all, almost dizzy and lightheaded. I want to at least place my mouth to the corner of his, let myself adore the scent of vanilla coffee and honey for just a moment. I want to do a lot of things. 

“We work really well together. Maybe I can call up some of my friends for a jam session sometime.” His forehead is so close to mine. 

He takes a step back, leaving me lost in the absence of him. “Yeah, that’d be nice. I think I should maybe go now.”

My heart is pounding. “Yeah, thanks for coming. That was really cool of you.”

“Anytime.” He lets himself out.

I’m so fucked.


	4. First Kiss Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING MENTIONS OF EATING DISORDERS
> 
> IM SORRRRRRY THIS TOOK SO LONG BUT ITS LIKE TWO THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED WORDS AND I SWEAR ITS OKAY AT LEAST
> 
> things r heating up and pete makes some promises he may not be able to keep
> 
> also patrick is cute and hes gonna kill pete with his lips

Thoughts of bubblegum lips and exposed collarbones drift through my overcast mind far too often for it to be anything but a crush. A major crush. The “I want to marry you and have three dogs and make you toast every morning” kind of crush. My writings become splotched with the images of pink carnations and red roses rather than the metallic tang of blood and guts. The library card sitting in my back pocket is getting more worn out than I would have guessed. I’m spending more time enjoying the fresh air of family owned bed and breakfasts than the tobacco stained atmosphere of mostly decaying bars. I think Patrick is doing me some well needed good.

This morning, I walk into the cheerful little library with a smile on my face and a brown paper bag in my hand, setting down a cup of coffee and a rather well deserved pastry in front of the ginger blonde who’s been keeping my life together as of late. He rolls his eyes, but takes a sip of the coffee. “Jason, seriously, you have to stop bringing me breakfast.” Even still, he takes a peek into the bag, eyes wide. “Dear god, where did you get this?”

Whenever he calls me that, a twinge of guilt covers my form like a veil. It’s for the best, I tell myself, it’s for the best. I’ll tell him someday.

I take my black backpack off my shoulders and set it on his desk, unzipping it to take out some quite overdue books. “Underground bakery on the outskirts of town. The family there is super sweet, as are all the products from the place. And no, I will never stop, because it’s cute and you need coffee, don’t lie to yourself.”

The soft sounds of shuffling books and pen on paper curls around my ears and grounds me, the familiar tap of fingernails against computer keyboards bringing me home, in a way. Patrick tries to hide his smile when he takes my books as well as a tentative bite of the chocolate croissant I picked up for him. 

He grins mischievously. “So how’d you like this one?” He asks, holding up the book that ruined my life. 

“I can’t believe you, I trusted you, and you ripped my heart out and tore it into a million pieces.”

“Don’t think it didn’t break me too. I missed a day of class to cry the day away.” He brushes the cover of the book off and gives it a loving look before placing it on the rack for books that need to be reshelved. 

“Speaking of that, what do you study? You never did tell me.” I tap my fingertips along the desk in playful patterns. His dark blue sweatshirt falls loosely around his shoulders.

He brushes his hair out of his eyes. “Majoring in music, minoring in journalism. It’s fun, though it’s taxing at times.”

I nod, impressed. “That’s really cool, man.”

“It’s a little less cool when I’m a starving college student pulling several all nighters in a row to meet a deadline. But it’ll work out in the end.” He plays with the pens in a nearby cup.

I inwardly tssk. “You should take better care of yourself.”

“Says you.”

“Touche.”

###

Needless to say, the first twelve chapters of my next book are drafted within a few weeks, the cute library boy seems to be into me, and my life is actually feeling kind of awesome at the moment. Even though the cute library boy doesn’t know I’m actually his favorite author. But that’s beside the point, I’ll deal with that later. I crack my knuckles and draw out several ways to ask him out in my mind. I’ve made the decision. He’s really cute, and musically talented, and kind, and kind of an ass when he hasn’t had caffeine, but I like it and I want to at least try it out. And maybe a few kisses. That would be very nice. 

Mapping out the city with daily exploration has its perks, especially as I recall all the most endearing places, perfect for date nights. After many considerations and mugs of herbal tea, I decide on a nice garden-y Japanese place on the far outskirts of town. It’s a nice place with a koi pond and paper lamps, quite homely and comforting, just as Patrick is. Plus, all the people who work there are nice and none of them scare me, which is rare. 

I stop at the bakery this morning again, picking up an incredibly impressive muffin as well as his signature coffee. It almost made me wish I ate breakfast. But that's just silly. Writers don't eat breakfast. 

The cold air of a Friday morning in Chicago’s September chills me through the four hoodies I'm wearing. Jack Frost cuts out my tongue and wrings my neck, easily snapping each rib down the row. But honestly I'm just being dramatic and it's not even freezing out, and I get to the library only a few minutes late. Hard crystal frost digs into the bottom of my boots as I enter the infinitely toasty library. 

Patrick groans as I set down his breakfast. “You're ridiculous.”

I fein terror. “It would be ridiculous to let you go without breakfast.”

“As if you eat anything.” 

“Fine, you want proof? Let me take you out for dinner tonight.” Suddenly, my boots are quite interesting and very observable. Even though I’d love to look at him.

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “... A date?”

I shrug. “If you want it to be, I guess.” I don’t wanna make him do anything. This should be natural and mutual if we want to really make it. 

His hands curl nervously around the brown paper bag. “I think I'd like that.”

I smile in spite of myself. “Shall I pick you up at five?” He looks so unsure and completely adorable, shaky fingers fiddling with the frames of his glasses. 

“Sure. But you don't know my address, idiot.” He scribbles something down on one of the free bookmarks sitting around the checkout counter, sliding it over to me. 

It's one of the colleges in the city. “I'll wait inside the dorm reception and come out when I see you pull up, alright?” I try to imagine his dorm, filled with paperbacks and textbooks, plants, and music posters. I wonder if he has a roommate. 

I nod. “Of course! Now, I must pick up a few books. Thank you, ‘Trick. I'll be back.” I run off into the fiction section as he waves me off. 

The scent of parchment and book bindings waft throughout the winding bookshelves, each spine looking intensely interesting. I let delicate fingers pick through the selection several times over while I hide out, trying to contain the beating of my heart and the sweat on my hands. Unfamiliar books find their way into my arms, striking covers and dark summaries. The weight of them weighs down my form, dull pain keeping me calm and collected as I approach the checkout once more. 

Patrick shakes his head at the amount of books I have, letting out an exasperated breath. “You're lucky I let you take out this many.”

I scoff. “You're saying that as if I don't bring them back.”

“I suppose you're correct, as much as I hate to admit it.” He hands me the stack.

A big part of me wants to lean over and press a kiss to his cheek. That part of me wins this round. He blushes furiously and burrows his face in his hands, effectively knocking his glasses down. I smile brightly, despite how he can't see me. “Farewell, Patrick. Thanks again.” I coast out the door just as I see him lower his forehead to his desk in abasement. So worth it.

###

My blood thins out after three too many cups of green tea and not enough of anything else, mind hazy and body ready to give out on me. I find myself needing to grab onto anything in my vicinity in order to stay upright. A part of me wonders if I should be driving tonight, let alone going out with someone. But it’s just nerves, really, and I’m overreacting. The cold surface of third story windows scar the fluid swirling behind my eyes.

Today I learned that if you wear a really skinny pair of jeans under a less skinny pair of jeans, no one can really tell as long as you’re wearing two belts and a longer shirt. Valuable information. Hightops and undershirts crawl over my body, bountiful amounts of shirts before a couple of hoodies. The whole shebang is concealed under a final winter jacket, a total of nine layers, I count. I’m still cold and I haven’t even left my heated apartment yet. This whole situation is a perfect summary of my health. 

Delicate wisps of frozen water adorn the windows of my car, miniature art pieces stitching together the fractals of glass. There’s something very comforting about scratching nails against a dashboard, a nostalgia in pressing the soles of shoes against the pedals. I usually wouldn’t turn the heat on, rather letting the gelid atmosphere sink into my skin. But I care more about Patrick than I do about myself and I don’t want him to be cold. False heating pad air coasts through the vents, bringing a false sense of security. It dries out the back of my throat, but the reminders of a soft love sends a smile to the edges of my mouth.

The scenery passing by is home, the steering wheel recognizable, and every building I pass by is another memory. I’ve been around long enough to understand why the cement stairs out the back of restaurants are better friends than I’ve ever had. I’ve been around long enough to know that I don’t make sense and I never will. I find shelter under twenty two wheelers and create myself a family under hotel balconies. Apartment buildings are close friends to the likes of me and my cement block relatives. I feel like a thick knitted quilt has been wrapped around me, so safe and content. 

I pull up to the curb while pretending to admire the columns residing on the college’s front, even though we all know I’m really admiring. Honeysuckle hair peeks out under a beanie, currently being pulled over his ears as he walks to the passenger’s side. I’m barely able to stare at his legs in those dark blue skinny jeans before he’s settling into the seat and shuddering off the cold. Not being able to stare at Patrick is definitely a loss, but him getting cold is far worse. 

The gust of cold air let in from his door chills my spindly fingers. “Burr, man! How are you not wearing thirty layers right now?” 

“Naturally warm.” He smiles, tracing mindless paths across the dashboard. “Where are we headed? You never really made it clear.”

“Only the best Japanese place in the state. Trust me, you’ll like it, it’s as cute as you.” 

“...Shut up.”

It’s actually relaxing to talk to him, something that does not come easy to me. Something about this entire situation puts me at ease, like reminiscing about a memory I made up for myself. A daydream come true. We’re rushing in a flurry of footsteps in the snow, time melting away like drops off icicles. 

The inside greets us with a flush of thermal air and cushy seating, as well as menus filled with extremely tempting Japanese cuisine. I point to a section of the menu. “Octopus, anyone?”

Patrick snuggles into his seat at our booth, face scrunching up. “I think not. I’ve been vegetarian since the start of the school year.”

I tilt my head. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I’ve been trying to be at least kind of healthy, and my roommate’s vegan, and he does most of the cooking, so..” He shrugs. “I’m not really intense about it or anything.”

I skim through the appetizers. “What is your roommate like anyways?”

He exhales with an unintentional smile. “His name is Andy, and he looks really menacing, but he’s a sweetheart. He’s majoring in world history, or something historical at least. He can be kind of a goofball, but in a good way.”

“Like me?”

“I suppose, if you consider a brooding, mysterious writer a goofball.”

I fake a look of hurt. “I’m not heartless!”

“Obviously.” He gestures to the restaurant. 

Talking with him gets the rusty cogs in my mind going, but at the same time calms me down. It’s kind of surreal, but in a really, really good sense. The night is friendly and unwinding, something to relax with before getting back to work in the next couple days. A rather notable moment of feeding Patrick a slice of California roll, a debate on the quality of Crayola pencils, and an endless amount of other fantastic memories are made tonight.

There’s a certain romance in the way his face lights up with a blush as he notices how starstruck I am in the sight of his eyes. I indulge in the opportunity to be with him like this, to be fortunate enough to take his time. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it, the warm feeling that starts in my core and spreads to my fingertips when I think of him. It’s unlike anything I’ve had the honor to experience before, and I can’t get enough of it. I can’t get enough of him. Oh god, I think I’m in love.

He smiles over a giant mouthful of ice cream, chocolate shavings sticking to his lips. “Are you sure you’ve got enough there?” I ask, letting my own spoon take out a small amount of the vanilla treat. 

“Do not insult my ice cream habits. It’s been so long since I’ve had anything but coconut substitutes.” 

I scratch the back of my neck. “I guess so!” He glares at me, though the corners of his mouth turn up, still slightly drenched in vanilla cream. “I’m not saying it’s not adorable. If ice cream is what you desire, it’s my duty to provide.”

He laughs. “Jason: World’s Most Doting Boyfriend. Not a bad title.”

The word ‘boyfriend’ makes my heart stir, but having to hide never feels any good. It’s all for the best, I know. I want this to be based off real feelings, and getting to know each other without all the superficial bullshit. If he’s really going to take me seriously, I’ll tell him. I promise myself.

We leave in a flurry of frozen smiles and frosted fingers intertwined, my hands cold against the chilled metal of the passenger side door as I let him in.”What a gentleman.”

“‘World’s Most Doting Boyfriend’, do not forget!” I chide, sliding into my seat. 

“Jason…”

The world warms up even in the dead of winter as I drive calmly. I’ve got precious cargo in this one, I think looking across to Patrick. Safe and slow. Icicles and snowmen pass us by, small nuances of the wintry weather pinching my heart as if the man seated next to me isn’t enough. Everything feels so safe with him. Mornings filled with banter and page turning have evolved into a bond of trust and what I hope to be love. I suppose I’ll find out, I think, as I pull up to drop him off. 

I open his door once more, taking his hand as he steps onto the concrete. “I had a great time tonight.” I say softly.

He smiles warmly as a blush reaches the tips of his ears. “Me too. I’d like to do that again sometime.”

“Yeah.” I swallow, heart rate giving out on me completely as his golden blue eyes take a glance at my mouth. Before my mind can react or my breath can catch, I’m leaning in, surrendering to the pressing needs of my lips on his.

He still tastes of lingering vanilla, mouth inviting and warm in the late November atmosphere. Lips just as good as I imagined and wrote down, and all mine to claim now. I’m pretty sure I could kiss Patrick forever if he’d let me. I let my mouth slide against his one more time before pulling back, forehead still resting on his. My hands are cold in his.

It’s him who leans in again, a little too eager for something more than what we can do in front of a college while caught in flurries. I make a mental note to cancel all plans for a strict day of giving undivided attention to him. 

“Thanks.” He smiles and wipes off his lower lip on the hem of his sleeve. 

“Of course… I guess I’ll see you later?”

“I’d love that.”

That boy will be the death of me.


	5. Hunger and Greasy Guitar Picks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING BODY DYSMORPHIA KIND OF AND ALSO MORE EATING DISORDERS
> 
> this is sad. 
> 
> listen to the beers by the front bottoms because its the greatest song known to the men we pretend we are

“What is a punchcutter?”

Patrick fiddles with the pen in his hand. “Uh.. It’s like a three dimensional thing in the shape of a stamp, kind of, but with a letter on it instead of, you know, a stamp… thing.”

I relent. “Close enough.”

He smiles and leans in to give me a small kiss. 

Patrick has a unit test on the history of printing in a few days, and he asked me to help out. Being a writer has its perks, flexible scheduling being one of them. Which would explain why I’m sitting on Patrick’s twin sized dorm bed and looking over his study guide. His place is cold, sure, but I brought hot cocoa and Patrick has soft blankets as well as a soft body, so I’m more than content with the setup. 

However, he’s a little less than ecstatic about the topic. I remember him saying earlier, “The reason I took journalism is because I’m passionate about what’s going on right now! I want to report on the news that’s, you know, currently concerning the nation, not worry about old dudes with pens and shit.” Motivation was, at first, a challenge. But another perk of being a writer is the creativity. Instant gratification in the form of a kiss after every correct answer is more than enough to get Patrick going. I’m more than happy to dish out the rewards. It’s the whole getting Patrick to focus on the work rather than my mouth, as well as the danger of his roommate coming back early, that I have to be careful about.

Not that I wouldn’t just adore going quite a bit further with him right now, but he needs to get a good grade on this exam or I’ll feel like I failed too. “Where was the first flat-bed printing press developed?”

After a moment of hesitation, he speaks up. “Germany?”

I nod, leaning in for another kiss. His glasses press cold into my cheeks, mouth readily opening, quite desperate for far more than he’s receiving. It takes pretty much everything I have in me to pull away and not succumb to the blush high on his cheeks. There’s honestly nothing better than knowing he’s comfortable being around me like this, or telling me what he wants. It’s been a few inseparable weeks since our first “official” date, and I can’t help but find myself falling deeper into and opening up to the strawberry blonde breathing hard beside me. He’s gonna fail this test and it’s going to be my fault.

“If I answer an essay question, do I get more?” He asks, eyes nearly glazed over. 

“I think that can be arranged.” 

We somehow get through all the material once, and then go over a couple of problem areas, before neither of us can focus on anything other than the other’s mouth and the growing tension between us. “So, what printing method is most commonly used by companies today?”

His breath catches, he licks his lips. “It’s um - the uh -”

“Just kiss me dammit.”

Bubblegum cherry lips open easily, I push my mouth to his, hands landing harshly on his hips. He tosses the papers out of his lap and onto the floor, pressing me to him. Glasses press cool into the apples of my cheeks, his knitted sweater pushed up as my fingers creep over the soft fabric on his waist. Rough breath scratches the back of my throat, he whines in the back of his. I’m marveling at the soft squish of his thighs. It’s easy to sit in his lap, curl into his touch. The milky surface of his neck is so tempting to bite into, blood red lips bleeding into pastel skin. 

The black buttons on his sweater are increasingly hard to undo, my fingers getting caught on each one. I sigh at the sight of his button up. He pushes an open palm against my chest, separating my lips from his. “Here, I got it.” He laughs, taking off the awfully obstructing article of clothing.

I settle in his lap once more, hands skimming over his shoulder and neckline. I fiddle with the collar of his shirt, detaching what I can. Pressing a kiss to his throat, I push the fabric over his collarbones, hands exploring newly found spaces. 

He grabs my wrists suddenly. “Wait, Jason, maybe wait a minute…”

I sit up on my knees, holding his hands in mine. “Yeah? What is it? I’ll never make you do something you don’t wanna do, you know that, right?”

His hair is still messed up where I ran my fingers through it, blush still dusting his cheeks. “Yeah. I, uh, there’s kind of some, like, body stuff. That I’m not comfortable with yet.” He swallows, pulling his knees up to his chest and rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. 

I surely don’t want him to feel badly about anything. This is all about making him feel good, after all. “Alright. Do you want to talk about it?” Nothing as silly as a few body marks could ward me away. It’s not like many of my friends haven’t suffered through the worst cliches. Hell, even the characters in my books have some major, touchy problems. Let alone myself or the anti depressants sitting in my bedside drawers.

“I don’t know. I guess I probably should, because I really like you, and I want to be open with you, but it’s kind of something I’ve struggled with since I was a kid. It’s no big deal, though.”

“It’s as much of a deal as you make it out to be. I won’t make you say anything you don’t want to. It’s not like I don’t have secrets.” The major one being that my name is actually Pete, but we can overlook that for obvious reasons. But that doesn’t matter. If Patrick is hurting, I need to be there for him. He makes me feel so much better about myself, the least I could do is lend a little support.

Patrick drops my grasp and wraps his arms around his middle. “I don’t know. I’ll have to tell you eventually, I know as much, but I don’t know. I don’t know…”

I rub a hand down his shoulders. “It’s alright man. I love you, no matter what’s on your skin. You should know that. It’s what’s up here,” I scruff up his peachy blonde hair. “and in here,” I place a hand over his heart. “that matters most. Though don’t get me wrong, your body’s pretty fuckin sweet too.”

He buries his head in his knees. “I know. I love you too.”

###

Insecurities aside, the band’s really picking up, and my book’s well on its way. After a few more writing sessions (and a few make out sessions), I call up Joe and demand that he meets up with us. Patrick and I are nearly finished with a good four songs, and we’re working on many more. I’m pretty sure I have Joe convinced, but this practice will finally show him what we’ve got going for us. 

I pull up outside the college once more, windshield wipers shrugging off slushy sleet. I do my best to let the water rivulets to take up my attention, rather than the feeling of hunger rattling my bones. Hopefully there won’t be time for food at Joe’s place. A dark hooded figure rushes out the front doors, rushing towards my passenger’s side with stuttering footsteps. My throat is dry.

He pulls open the door and closes it behind him with a harsh slam, cranking up the heat I already have blowing with frozen fingers. “I hate Illinois. I hate it.”

“Really? I always prefered the cold. Even though it’s, you know, cold, it just kinda feels like home at this point. I don’t think I’d survive in any of those southern states anyways.”

“Good point. Me and my gay liberal ass would be burned alive.” He sighs. “I think I like the cold too.”

The ride to Joe’s mostly run down house is smooth and comforting, like cherrywood and the smell of brand new play dough. His hair is still kind of wet with melting snowy solutions, slightly darker than usual. I want to run my fingers through it, but my hands have to fiddle with the wheel for the time being. Later, I make a mental note.

Joe’s white front steps have deeply cracked white paint, bending down with the weight of heavy slush. His floorboards creak with each step, doorknob nearly breaking off when I reach out for it. Some days I wonder how he survives.

Tightly curled mops of hair peek out from behind a corner, ocean blue eyes following them out. “Is this our golden ticket?” 

“Fuck yeah it is.” I don’t glance back at Patrick. Sometimes just knowing he’s blushing is enough.

Joe’s sly smile reaches the corners of his sky blues. “Glad to hear it. Follow me, pansies.”

His basement is filled with dusty guitar cases and dirtier vinyls. Patrick stays close behind me, not quite comfortable with the cobwebs gracing the corners of the open space. Everything can be home, after a while. Even the bug carcases I have to shake out of the acoustics in here. 

Things become much more open and easy after we sit down and start working. Ideas bounce off the echoing walls like white kids in a bouncy house. Sticky pens scroll across crumpled papers, chords and music staffs, Patrick’s voice ringing off the exposed beams in the ceiling. Joe fixes up what we have and brings an incredible amount of new material to our tea stained coffee table. It smells like mildew and dirt, I feel great.

Thick bass strings cut bluntly into the pads of my fingers, the debris in the air filling up my tired lungs like the best kind of tobacco. Joe turns to me while Patrick plays around with lyrics. “You were right.” He relents, smiling at me. “I’m so happy you proved me wrong.”

“Not the first and certainly not the last, Trohman. What do you say, make it a band?”

He shrugs. “Fuck it. Sure.” I punch him in the shoulder a little harder than I planned. “We need a drummer.”

Patrick looks to us. “Andy can drum. I mean, I can play drums, but I’m pretty sure we’re counting on me singing and whatnot.”

“I’ll check him out.” 

Joe bites his lower lip. “I’ll look around too, but, who is this Andy kid?”

Patrick wipes his glasses on the hem of his shirt. “He looks terrifying and he could beat me to a pulp, but he’s really just a straightedge vegan puppy.” 

Joe nods his head. “I can work with this.”

We leave with six finished songs and a sense of renewed accomplishment. Patrick’s converse sink into the rotting wood of Joe’s front steps on the way out, and we all feel a little better. Sub zero Illinois chill seeps into my ribcage and makes a home in the back of my mouth. Suddenly, I have the urge to swallow a whole handful of loose change. Patrick’s sides are plushy and fun to run hands over. He kicks his feet up on my dashboard and I don’t tell him to take them off. 

This band is coming together and I won’t let it fall apart. 

###

I finish the first draft of the entire books. I pick up breakfast for Patrick every single day and every single day I don’t eat unless it’s with him. I read more books than I return. 

Things are looking up, I think to myself. The scale says 135. I say not enough. I say I love you to him every day. I say not enough. I feel so at home.


	6. Chubby = Fuckin' Sweet n Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i have a chub kink n im making u suffer through it  
> TRIGGER WARNING SELF HARM SERIOUSLY -- graphic depictions of scars mostly but also they talk abt the act of it

There’s seldom a feeling worse than longing for the presence of the one you love, but knowing they’re better off without you. Hard ceramics dig into my back. I can’t really tell what my body is mad at me about, because there are so many reasons I feel awful. Perhaps such reactions are impacts of the staircase rib cages pushing into the bottom of the bathtub, or the evening lilac sky opening up under my bloodshot dirt browns. The tips of my fingers are baby blues, dry lips turned chlorine pool hues. It feels destructive, detrimental, but so familiar and comforting that there’s simply no way I could leave it behind. The tub is empty and dry except for myself, the thin sweater encasing my form doing little to ease the biting cold.

Sometimes, you just need to sit in the bathtub and fill it up with nothing but self pity. There’s little else that’ll jog my creative drive when I feel like applying razors to my neck rather than a pen to paper. The only sound brushing tile walls is my stomach growling uncomfortably, so concerning and embarrassing that I’m incredibly happy to be alone at the moment. My head is hazy, brain dripping with drowsiness. What else would make a writer?

I wait until the fluorescent lights overhead sink into the back of my skull, until my limbs fall asleep against the porcelain, before I get back to work. Or at least try to get back to work. Mainly because right after I stand up, my mind goes blank. Suddenly everything is blurring past me, head literally over heels. Then I feel my head hit the corner of my sink. 

I wake up several hours later with nothing to prove for my efforts other than a bruise and a sour mood.

###

It’s a few days later when Patrick comes into My place with an incredibly nervous expression and unsure fingertips. I wrap an arm around his shoulders, leaning him into me. “You know you don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with, right? I love you no matter what.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. Can we do this in your bedroom? I kinda… want somewhere to hide, in a sense.”

I press a kiss to his cheek. “Of course.”

Stormy grey comforters that lie thrown over my bed are much warmer and inviting with him in them, even if he still looks like he’s gonna be sick. I sit cross legged in front of him, my hands fiddling with his. My lips linger on the back of his hand. “Do you think you’re ready?” I ask, hands resting on his sweater sleeves. 

He exhales slowly. “I guess?” I give him a concerned look. “Yeah, alright, I’m ready.”

“... Things were never really ‘good’ for me, I suppose. There was always a bully around the corner and my own insecurity clawing down my neck. One day, I think it was fifth grade, I just kinda… Dug the point of a pencil into my thighs? I don’t know, it was weird.”

My breath catches, unsettled fingertips brushing up against the soft feel of his thighs. Even with skinny jeans, he’s still so inviting. He continues. “It kind of escalated from there, I guess. Pencils turned into pens and broken glass and blades. I can still remember the first time I could see the inside of my cuts, really see the exposed inner flesh… I’m sorry, that was gross, I don’t know…”

I shake my head. “I'm a writer, man. It's hard to phase me. Though, it does hurt to know you did this to yourself.”

He closes his eyes. “Yeah, I guess.” 

The silence of my dim bedroom seeps into my skull, dark backdrops merging with his burgundy button up. It feels like a thick veil has been placed over us, the outside world warped and obscured by layers of tule and lace. His cheeks are queens of hearts, the underside of his chin leading down to the pastel of his neck. There’s little else I’d be doing, other than actually fucking helping. 

“I kinda feel like I should just show you so you don't freak out later.” Whispered and departed from his crimson lips like smoke. 

a

Light pinks streak across the pretty skin, deep scars marring the one I love. Crossed and jagged, layered upon one another endlessly. Darker peaches falling like wispy clouds over a morning sky. 

It hurts, but in a different way than most. The pain isn’t in my heart, not really. It’s scraping at the inside of my skin, scooping away fat and muscle. Familiar in the way that I’ve dealt with heartbreak and dabbled in teardrops, but alien in how this is Patrick, the beautiful, amazing human being who I’ve been falling for for the past couple months of my life. I adore him, alright? I’ll love him no matter how many scars are webbing across his skin. But it hurts to know it has to be a problem. 

I wonder if it would be alright to reach out and touch him. He looks uncomfortable, not quite ready to face his own skin. “I’m glad you shared this with me. I want you to know that this won’t change anything. I still love you, I always will. But I need you to trust in me and ask for help when you need it.”

His hands come to rest over the pinker areas, covering up in a sense. “I guess. I’ll do my best.”

I shift closer to him. “I love everything about you. Even your scars. Especially your scars.” I run hands down his shoulders, his sides. “There’s nothing to be self conscious about here. It’s all good.” My lips meet his before I trail down his neck, hands brushing over his arms. I pepper kisses over the scratchy pinkish lines, fingertips skimming over the baby fat resting there.

His hands rest on the back of my shoulders. “I don’t know. I don’t really, you know, I’m just not that great. There’s a lot of stuff, and you can see it, I know you can. It’s just… not nice.”

“You’re beautiful.” I send him a pointed look. “You’re beautiful inside and out, from your toes to the top of your head. Everything in between is pretty sweet too.” He laughs and pushes my hands away as I play with his plushy thighs, insisting upon tummy rubs and hearty hugs. I kiss him again, a smile spreading across his face despite his obvious insecurity. “I’ll always love you.”


	7. andy is cool and seckssss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning suicide talk n they do the cheeky butt secks

Between dark cups of tea and light flashes of antidepressants, I find myself back in the dusty old basement with a pen in one hand and a bass in the other. The grime is beginning to settle in my lungs and enter my bloodstream, guitar picks stinging against the inner walls of my throat and guitar strings pressing into my flesh. Joe’s somber tones send shards into my ears, but in a good way. Patrick’s voice is like a scratchy sweater, but in a very good way. I can’t really describe it. It’s more of an unexplainable sensation than anything I could write out. 

Things start taking off, too. We’re recording things, piecing them together, winding threads into fabrics. A feeling scraping down the backs of all of our throats, a signal of something taking form. Doubt and drained ideas still latch onto us from time to time, surely, but the creaking beams of Joe’s basement and the feeling of my fingers against the neck of a guitar bring me back to earth. That doubt disintegrates when Andy comes into the picture.

Quiet with an air of wisdom, head held high, shoulders broad. Gentle but stern, kind but carefully guarded. To say the least, the guy impresses me. We meet for the first time in one of the music rooms in Patrick’s campus, dim lighting and cinder block walls spreading out before us. Patrick grabs my hand, pulling me down dark hallways towards the sound of beating drums. We step in time to the beat.

When Patrick pulls open the door, he puts down the sticks and looks up at us. Then, he narrows his eyes at Patrick. I notice a girl in the corner of the room tapping away on her phone, glancing up at us for only a moment. She has dark blue hair and an edge of ‘I take no shit’ to her. Andy speaks up, voice much higher than expected. “Did you remember to pick up more paper?”

Patrick drops my hand exasperatedly, opting to sigh exhaustedly. “Of course! Don’t look at me so… Mean-ly!” He grabs my hand and pulls me through the doorway. “This is Andy, and he’s as soft serve as vegan ice cream can get, when he’s not BULLYING ME.” He gestures to the girl in the corner, “That’s Emma, Andy’s fuckbuddy.”

Andy sets his shoulders back. “Close friend who I often partake in sexual activities with, yes.”

Emma mutters from the corner. “Whatever, Patrick wishes he was me.”

“Emma wishes she was me.” He gives my hand a rather possessive squeeze, considering he’s an honest to god duckling. His words don’t have a malicious edge, almost playful. I wonder how good of a friend Emma has been for him.

Andy smiles against his will. “Do you sillies want to show Mr. Bliss what we have in store?” 

Patrick nods, picking up a guitar that leaned against one of the walls. Brushing a pick across a few chords, fiddling with some of the tuners, he calls out. “High and Dry?”

Emma looks up from her phone. “HELL YEAH!”

I lean up against the nearest wall, nodding my head to the calming beat. Andy’s good, I can tell. Each tap and pitter patter is exactly where it should be, dynamics soaring and dipping with meticulous accuracy. It's like watching the orderly movements in a swarm of birds heading north. Or south, for that matter. Even if it seems like things are going south, humans are the ones who decides south was down anyways. South can be whatever direction we make it to be.

Patrick’s whispery voice floats dandelion seeds from his lips, falling petals over Andy. They work together like lily pads spread out over silent ponds, spring breeze sending ripples across marble water surface. Dark mist wrapping itself through dark wood forests, sly creatures hiding in its veil. It’s so natural, so insanely clean cut and meant to be that I can't help but compare it to the balance between the sky and the earth. I wonder if you can actually get the breath knocked out of you by listening to something, or if I'm just hallucinating.

Patrick carefully brushes out the cords, voice carrying like dandelion seeds over to the drum set. Andy traces feather light strikes into the skins of his drums, so in time but fittingly distant. He has a more pounding, heavy style than most, from what I pick up on. Still gentle when he needs to be, though. Just from this, I can see him going far with us. I take out my phone and record some of it. I'll send it to Joe later.

By the time the song is over, Patrick had been dancing around the dimly lit room, and Andy was grinning broadly at the scene. It ends with a heartfelt fade out, with Patrick bringing it to a whisper while Andy barely taps his drums. A fitting end to such a song. 

Emma and I clap as the sound dissipates, and Patrick bows. “Thank you, thank you.”

Andy shakes his head with a smile. “Are you two gonna hang around? We could jam a little.” Emma gives an approving nod.

Patrick shrugs. “I really gotta finish my stupid paper. And finish re reading The Goblet of Fire.”

“You're a nerd.” Emma calls out.

“True indeed. Now, I must go read Harry Potter and drink tea while working on an English assignment on a Friday night because I have no friends. Farewell, good lady and sir.”

“Have fun in dorkland.” Andy speaks. 

“Thanks, Mr. I’ve Watched LOTR Exactly Seventy Six And A Half Times.” Patrick protests, zipping up the guitar’s case and leading me out the door.

“What’s your damage?” Andy shouts as we dance out the door. Patrick laughs, a high noise filled with amusement and wonder. 

I'm pulled down shadowy hallways, our boots echoing off the tile floor, voices resonating on the cinderblock walls. Evening spotlights intrude through the grimy basement windows, distant rays catching the sunset honey in Patrick’s hair. Stumbling up stairs, tripping around sharp corners. A maze known to him like the inside of my mouth. When we finally race up to his room, the creaky door is thrown open, open lips pressed together as the door slams shut.

His dorm is lit by fluorescent overhead lights, walls covered with posters from all kind of art sources. His kiss tastes of apple cider and coffee. Just as my hands start creeping under the hem of his hoodie, he pulls away. “Hey, Jason? Can you make us some… Green tea sounds nice.”

I press a last kiss to his cheek. “Of course. Anything for the cutie pie.”

He rolls his eyes, but blushes anyways. “Thanks, gaylord.”

I fumble through his cabinets, wondering if there's a way to break a microwave in the five seconds I spent putting the tea in and starting it. “I'm seriously hurt by your words.”

“I’m sure.” Patrick deadpans, taking his laptop to his bed. He settles down while pulling binders out of his backpack, reaching to the cup of writing utensils on his bed stand for a pen.

Upon wandering around his room, I’m met with his ever growing collection of books, and can’t help but notice how he has every single one of my books, seemingly in a shrine. “You...You really like this Wentz guy, don’t you?” I ask, feeling quite awkward being met with the collection of my life’s work.

Patrick clutches his heart. “Oh, Pete! Only my all time favorite person ever in the history of the world. I started reading his books when I was still in highschool, he’s seriously the only reason I’m still alive today.”

Holy shit. “Really?” It’s extremely disorienting to think I saved my boyfriend’s life before I even met him.

He shrugs. “Yeah. I was suicidal as hell before I left highschool. His character, Serenity, really helped me through it.”

I think back to Serenity, the awfully energetic, but still so sweet side character in one of my series. She was a kind heart and always meant her best, but she tended to be a little hyperactive. Being mistreated for most of the book led her to have a whole slew of problems. She makes it out in the end though, I promise. I felt a connection with her in particular, I could never damage her irreversibly. My character Anne, though, I’d kill that bitch up and down.

“Heavy shit. Is he hot?” I ask, gesturing to my real name.

He scoffs. “You know he doesn’t show his face, idiot. But I’m sure he’s a total hottie patottie. Black hair, tall, looks great in a suit…”

Now it’s my turn to scoff. “What if the reason he never shows his face is because he’s ugly as hell.”

“I’d love him anyways. It’s about the art, not the looks. Obviously. It’s not like I would fall for a writer who doesn’t even show his face for his appearance. I’m completely obsessed with him.”

I decide to end it there, a little awe struck that I have such an effect on him beneath both of my names.

When I bring him his steaming mug, he takes it and sets it on the table beside him. “Do you plan on staying overnight? Andy’s probably gonna spend the rest of the night getting fucked by a strap on, thanks to Emma.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “You’re insane. If that’s alright with you, I can stay over. However, I’m wearing skinny jeans. Also, that Emma girl is pretty cool, isn’t she?”

“As if I have a problem with you wearing my clothes. Yeah, she’s been… partaking in social activities with Andy for a year or so now, they seem pretty happy together. He’s aromantic, so they have a strictly friend and sexual relationship. It’s pretty cool, I think. And she is pretty cool. Her music taste is awesome, and she’s a good friend.” He shrugs, nudging me with his elbow. “Get out your laptop and help me with this paper, nerd.”

I unzip my shitty backpack and slip it out, opening up to a new shared document. When I’m met with the walls of text describing the truths and lies of an article from WWII, he hands me a paper and shifts back to the headboard. “This mess is due in a week and a half. I already have most of it done, I just need to add a couple of excerpts and transitionals. Also, I can’t write topic sentences or introductions for shit, so you’re doing those for me.”

I start scanning over the pages. “Alright. You know what you’re doing?” I ask, turning a run on sentence into two slightly smaller run on sentences.

“Kind of. I’ll edit it later.”

His eyebrows furrow in concentration, fingers moving vehemently against the keyboard. Between sips of green tea and flutters of countless print outs, he’s looking over at me, probably wanting to just get this over with. I sift through the first five or so paragraphs, rewording phrases and correcting simple errors. It’s not like there’s much to change, Patrick’s a good writer.

Three mugs of tea each and a rather prolonged period of listening to Prince and working on a shitty research paper later, we’re both losing focus. I stretch, glancing in his direction. “Do you want to call it a night?” I ask, eyes calculating.

“Yes.” He pushes the computer off his lap, setting it down and leaning back on the pillows. 

I shift closer to him, resting my head on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around me while I nuzzle into his neck. “I love you.” I ghost kisses over his jaw, trailing further down as he leans back into it. Soft touches and feather light pecks turn into sliding my hips down to his, the heels of my hands firm against his cushy mattress. 

Breath hot against my lips, his hands on my back, pushing me to him. His mouth is so soft, his entire body so warm and inviting. I can’t believe he’s mine to enjoy. Which brings a giant item to mind.

I pull back a little, to which he whines. “Babe, wait. We need a safe word. And, are you sure you want this? I don’t wanna do anything you don’t want to do.”

He tries to rub his hips against mine, “Jason, please-”

“I need to make sure that this is alright, man.”

With another desperate jolce of his thighs, he gives up. “Fine! Our, uh, safeword can be… Saladfingers. And yes, please, please, get back to what you were doing. Now?” 

“God, I love you.” It’s not hard to dive headfirst into this after that. He pulls my shirt up over my head while I work on the buttons of his jeans, hating the loss of his hips against mine. Patrick is still breathing hard though, even if he’s moaning a name that’s not mine. Which kind of hurts, but the feeling of his hard on in my hand makes it quite a bit more manageable. 

Soon enough I’m making a path of kisses down between his thighs, nibbling into his hips. Upon pulling down his underwear, finally, I’m met with a loss of words.

Not because anything is wrong, quite the contrary. But there’s an entire human laid out before me who has hopes and feelings and dreams and talents, not to mention he’s full of insecurities, and yet he’s completely naked in front of me on his dorm bed, expecting me to put my fingers in his ass. He doesn’t even know my real name. Someone who is unaware of my true identity, someone who doesn’t know about the millions of dollars in my bank account or my absolutely pointless mansion just out of town, yet still loves me. Someone who is now staring at me with a scared look wondering if something’s wrong.

“No, no, sorry. I was just… you took my breath away, I guess.”

Patrick laughs at me, out loud, with his dick out in the open and inches from me. “I can’t believe I’m dating you. You’re so fake deep, oh my god.”

However, my hand closing around him and giving him a few rough strokes doesn’t seem as funny to him, especially as he starts sputtering out a train of broken “Jason,” “please,” and “fuck”s. 

The next parts are better felt as sensations than carried out as thoughts or written as words. I suppose there’s a billion words I could write about the way Patrick throws his head back, or the soft curve of his sides against the bed. It’s not as if I haven’t written stacks of mushy poetry on the beauty of his rough breath, or the bit of squish resting on his lower belly. Or just his whole body, really. Everything here is pretty fuckin sweet, if I do say so myself. It’s just… there’s not really a poetic way to say I’m fucking him up the ass. It does feel really fucking nice, though.

He feels like heaven and sounds like it too, little puffs of breath hitting my neck as he gasps his way through it. When he reaches the top, his whole body tightens up and relaxes. A struggled “Jason” leaving his beat up lips, hips jerking up. Unraveling, and because of me, and I’m still not sure if I’m being gentle enough. I want him to look back on this, green tea on the counter, his english homework just off to our side, and remember it well. He’s so soft, younger than I am, we’re in a college dorm room for christ’s sake. It’s kind of cold but he’s so warm, and then I’m coming too. And then I feel kind of bad, because it must be one of the worst feelings in the world to have my cum of all people’s up your ass. I’m so sorry Patrick.

Then I’m rolling over and hugging him to me, all his velvety curves and silky skin against me. I’m placing kisses all around his beautiful body, whispering I love yous into every crevice. Because I adore him, and he’s absolutely perfect, and he should know so. Every single thing about him is something I love, there’s not a thing I would change, and I tell him so.

He pushes me away with one hand while wiping his forehead with the other. “Stop… stopitnoooooo Jasooooooooooooon. I’m dating a care bear, send help.”

“I think you’re the stuffed animal in this relationship.” I chide, moving on top of him and pressing another deep kiss to him.

Needless to say, he falls asleep in my arms, leaving him completely defenseless to my unstopping cuddles. It’s a good night.


	8. Porcelain Puke and Soft Bodies - A Debate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - BULLIMIA, ANOREXIA, SELF HARM, OH MY ! SERIOUSL Y DO NT F U C K A R O U N D 
> 
> ha wow it was triggering for me to write this 
> 
> this chapter was really personal and most of it was based off of whats actually happened to me so try to be kind if you plan on criticizing this one

The feel of Patrick’s sides is becoming as familiar as the position of keys on a keyboard. Both are great. I’m turning inner cobwebs into ink splatters on screens, my printer working just as hard as I am these days. The show’s on the road, another book just near being out, just the final touches being placed delicately on top. Much like the finishing coat of resin on a painted masterpiece do I meticulously delete and recreate similar phrases to get that right feel. I hope the fans will like it. 

Between conversations with my editor and the publishing company, I’m working with studios and producers. One minute I’m discussing paper types and the next I’m swapping amps. Andy slides into our lineup like he was made for it, and it seems like he is. It’s a little jarring, but it is what it is, and I love it. Earl grey tea scratches up the back of my throat, lack of sleep scraping out the inside of my eyelids. Baby blues drift under my eyes and cut across my mouth, lavender hues making homes under my fingernails. I haven’t eaten in three days. I love it.

Sounds of harsh drums and slicing riffs float through my ears, songs taking form like the calm before the storm, where all the clouds wait in silent anticipation. It’s only a matter of time before it starts a downpour, hail battering my body in the best way possible. Blocks of ice may knock down a few flowers, break a few windows, sure. The healing rain, though? Bountiful flowers and lush green grass, scenes of sprouting apple trees and happy inchworms. Suddenly, it’s all real. 

When the album, the finished, sweat-blood-and-tears album, gets released, it’s time to throw a party. I see long time friends and new faces alike smiling and celebrating, all souls kept high above the dusty Chicago ground by a penthouse the band thinks I got my father to pay for. It’s secretive but exhilarating, an event spent dancing to shitty music and drinking shittier alcohol. Joe’s chatting up every other girl in the place, Emma’s happily seated on Andy’s lap, and Patrick’s having an argument about the legitimacy of manufacturing methods of the fashion industry. Bright lights are dimmed, wine glasses and glittering eyeshadow shining in what remains. Sounds burst from every corner, bottles clinking together, laughing, the slap of heels against the dancefloor. It smells like liquor and liquid foundation. Dry cleaned suit collars press into my neck, far too expensive watch on my scarred over wrist, cologne sprayed across the room like a freely bleeding sunset. 

But then it’s too much. The dimmed lights are too bright, perfume sprayed down my throat, burning behind my eyes. And there’s so much food. It’s everywhere. I do the math, every table tipping the better part of what I eat in a year, each bite another one I don’t want anywhere near me. The collar of my shirt is choking me up, I don’t send a look to Patrick before running to the upstairs bathroom. 

My head is spinning faster than the disco balls downstairs, hands shaking like the girl’s asses, breath catching like her hands on his zipper. The first two fingers of my right hand shoved down my throat like his down her panties, stomach acid dripping out like sticky fruit punch and gin. Nothing will come up because nothing goes down. It still feels nice, though, to only see blood and saliva in the bowl when all is said and done. It hurts, quite a bit, and I can’t breathe, I can’t see anything, I can’t feel anything, I can’t 

###

When I wake up, my throat is dry, and I can barely move. The shifting shapes turn into my bedroom after some time, gravity lifting off me and making it easier to stand up. It’s so fucking cold in this damn apartment, even though as I walk past the thermostat it reads 73. I hear the scratch of pen on paper and the sipping of coffee in my kitchen.

Patrick looks up from his work and stands up. “Jason, you need some water. And a shower. And to tell me what happened. But mostly you need water.”

 

“I’m sorry,” I croak while he pours from my pitcher, shoving the cup in my fidgeting hands. 

He exhales, and I would kiss the tip of his nose if my breath didn’t smell like vomit and schnopz. “I forgive you. But seriously, you need to tell me if you need me.” 

I down the water before taking a too hot shower and changing into one of Patrick’s hoodies and worn skinny jeans. When I walk back out again, he’s setting a plate of french toast on my living room table while scribbling something in a binder.

I look at him, confused. “Is that for me?” 

He furrows his brows. “Who else would it be for.”

I swallow harshly. “Alright.” 

Patrick leans the edge of his binder against his hip. “You need to eat something. I know you didn’t eat yesterday.”

Or the day before that, or the day before that, or the day before that, I think to myself. But I can’t say that. Him knowing even the littlest piece of it is still really numbing, disorienting. “I feel nauseous. It would look better on you.”

His eyes somehow fill with a kind of anger. “You can’t do that. You can’t just… endlessly degrade yourself, you’re starving to death, for christ’s sake! Then you turn around and tell me how you love my body, always bringing me food, reminding me to take care of myself. You’re a hypocrite. It’s not good for you. It’s not good for me either. Do you think I feel good about myself when you’re so fragile? So much thinner than I am? It hurts, Jason. Please, eat it. I need to go get my history homework.”

I reluctantly sit down and toy with it, trying not to count the toppling calories as I take my first bite. Patrick slides in next to me, thick thighs pressing against mine, an arm instantly around my sharp shoulders. He rests his head against my neck, soft honey hair tickling the underside of my jaw. Nuzzling into me, his chest rising and falling while his eyes scan over an article. It’s hard, but when I finish the dumb ass french toast, he presses a slightly sloppy kiss to my cheek, leaning farther into my lap.  
He comes to sit down on my thighs, back resting against my chest. I kiss the back of his neck, my hands playing with his plushy sides. When I slide a kiss over the back of his neck, he turns his head to give me better access. “I love you.” I mumble under his ear, touching feather light lips over the silky skin there. 

He sets his papers down, turning to me with a silly smile while I lead him down against the cushions of the couch. “I love you too.” His fingers step up the back of my staircase ribcage while I run hands all along his body, pushing kisses all over. Down his soft sides, the gentle curve of his stomach, over velvety shoulders and around flower petal thighs. I love all of him, every crevice, every insecurity. Whatever it is, I’ll love him to death. Even if I can’t begin to promise myself the same. 

When his hands reach my sides, I jump, rejecting the touch no matter how gentle. Everything about me is smashing eggshells, all parts of me another glass lamp thrown off the same roof all your friends threw themselves off of. It’s bad, he shouldn’t be touching me, he shouldn’t be touching me, it feels wrong, this is all wrong.

I’m hiding my head in his chest, breath slowing down when he moves his hands back to my back. “Jason, you know, it’s okay to be loved. It’s good to be loved. I love you.”

“I know, I guess. It just… I have never been loved, you know? And I don’t think anyone could fall in love with anything but my dumb writing.”

“Too late.” He says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. 

I calm down to the feeling of his hands carding through my hair, petting down my spine. Once he drags my sleepy body to bed, it’s easy to fall asleep on the pillowy softness of his tummy, my hand wrapped in his.


	9. Microphone Lips and Bleeding Throats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF THROWING UP (BULLIMIA) and probably also fat fetishization depending on your definition of that but i mean thats basically this whole fic so hhhhhhhhh  
> this entire fic is such a fuck fest im sorr y
> 
>  
> 
> fuckin fuckity fuck fuck
> 
>  
> 
> fucking fuck

We’re on tour. We’re actually on tour. With a scratched up old van that makes us look even more like pedophiles than we already do and all of our Christmas money, we venture on in early spring conditions. Between gross gas stations and grosser van interiors, I’m screaming into the nearest microphone and holding hands with strangers who know me better than I do. Somewhere, I get caught in the guitar neck in my hands, the sight of Patrick’s lips flush against a microphone, heart ripped up on Joe’s rusty springs. The fans are screaming Jason, Jason, Jason. It burns, but only a little. Not unlike the heavy scent of cigarette smoke and gasoline taking over most of our venues. It’s not the most glorious thing, most mornings I find myself longing for a sink to wash my hair in, but it feels like a bare necessity. Like air or water, or the feeling of Patrick’s lips against mine. This band is now something I can’t live without.

But there’s always writing. The first form of art to save my life, the only thing I’m any good at. I can’t give up writing for anything, not even this band. Writing comes first, and it always will. Even on tour, I brought along my trusty laptop, and my next novel is being set out in snotty bookstores everywhere in less than a few weeks. I can’t wait for Patrick’s reaction. It’ll be the last in a series, a somber but fulfilling note to end it all on. I’ve ended series before, but this one feels a little different. Things are looking up this time around. 

We’re on the side of a road somewhere in South Carolina, surrounded by newly budding trees and fresh grass. The road is halfway falling apart, asphalt chunking into broken steps. Joe spits tobacco into the nearest ditch as Andy crawls out of the van, candle in hand.

“Where did you find a candle?” Joe asks, staring at the smooth wax in Andy’s hand. 

Andy holds the licking orange flame, a softly determined look on his face. “I saved him.”

I nod my head in agreement. “Good job.”

The three of us stare off at the rolling hills, our new brother held between us. It feels like home again. 

“You guys are fucking dorks.” Patrick calls from the van.

Joe swallows harshly.

###

Flashing lights, sweat streaking the stage floor, energy and exhaustion flying through the venue. I can’t feel my fingers, but I’m sure I sound fine anyways. My head is spinning between stage, crowd, stage, crowd, Andy sending me a look that says “you’re off beat”, crowd, fans in the wings, stage. I stumble through fingerings while my heart jumps higher than that one kid in the mosh pit, head over the groupie’s seven inch heels. Joe jumps and spins, the head of his guitar smashing into my side and sending me flying. I love it. I love this. 

I get back up and scream lyrics into the nearest microphone, wiping the sweat off my forehead on bloodied knuckles. The song fades into a mess of shitty guitar improv and heavy breathing. Rinse in a solution of gasoline, bleach, and blood, and repeat like your favorite song on cassette tape. Rub it across the sweat on the back of my neck and shove it down my throat. That’s what a live show is, but it feel a lot better. Sugar and spice and steroids and too many calories, that’s how a tour is made. Fuck me up the ass with vitamin D.

After taking shitty almost-showers in the public bathroom sink and drying off with one ply toilet paper, we’re dancing back to the van in a swirl of adrenaline and exhaustion. I’m settling in the back on Patrick’s plushy frame while we talk about how fucking awesome that show was. 

“Jason, man, I’m so sorry for slamming into you. But you gotta admit, that jump was sick.” Joe calls from the front while inhaling a pack of twizzlers. 

“I’m sure Trickster can kiss it better.” I tease, squeezing at the pillowy chub around his sides. 

Patrick sighs, mumbling a “Whatever. I totally killed Patron Saint tonight. Even though I pulled, like, thirty muscles to do it.”

Andy nods from the driver’s seat, presumably taking dick pics to send to Emma. It’s a good night, I think to myself as I pull Patrick closer to me. Pressing little kisses all over his sides and down his middle, I whisper I love yous like prayers against his silvery skin. The other two notice but pretend not to, they just know that sometimes this is what we need. Patrick lets mewls break from his lips like smoke, confirming sounds in response to the hands running up and down his thick thighs. The van is dark and it smells like too many truck stops, but his body is so beautiful, even against the gross plastic floor. Between kisses and cuddles I’m falling deeper into sleep, letting the insomnia at the edges of my vision blur into the center of my pupils. Patrick’s belly really is the best pillow on earth, and I’m determined to make him love himself as much as I love him. 

Nights send me warping through too many memories and not enough dreams, clawing down the back of my mind rather than bursting at the forefront. It’s uncomfortable and choking, almost, as thoughts of bitten up fingers and blood on bathroom floors flood my skull. It’s worse now that Patrick’s with me all the time. There’s no excuse not to eat. I’m not cold all the time anymore, and I can’t feel the same smooth hardness in the concave where my stomach once was. It’s a lot too much, and I’m scratching at my sides, I’m scraping down my thighs and everything that’s just too much. It’s too much, I’m too much, and the darkness of the van is starting to resemble the darkness clinging to me. 

I’m breathing rapidly and hoping to god that the band doesn’t wake up. I’m untangling myself from Patrick and grabbing my laptop before jumping out. It’s cold outside and I feel freezing again, something familiar and comforting above all else. I only take a few steps into the thorny woods beside our parking spot before I’m shoving a hand down my throat, disgusting, disgusting stuff coming up and contrasting the browns and greens of the woods. There are tears streaking my face and dripping onto my hoodie, even though I’m not sad, just numb, and I’m sat crying against the trunk of a birch tree before I know what’s happening. The remaining blood in my brain spills onto an empty word document, filling up page after page of articulating self hatred. I can’t love this fucking dumb body I’ve been given. It doesn’t feel right. 

When the first pale yellow lights of morning show through the clouds, I’ve written enough to fill several chapters. It’s all negative, all horrible and blood and dead bodies, but it has a plot and characters that I relate to. I send it all to my editor and hope he doesn’t ask me if I’m okay. 

In the fear that the boys are about to wake up, I take out the set of a toothbrush and toothpaste I keep in my pocket at all times for nights like these. Running into the fast food place across the way, I pick up enough food for all of us and then dump out my share in the nearest garbage can. I keep the packaging, though, to try proving I ate it. Then I brush the taste of vomit and blood out of my mouth in their questionable bathroom, trying to avoid the stares of the other guys in there. Running back to the van, I thank whatever god there may be that they indeed haven’t woken yet. I set the food down, leaning back and continuing to write. 

Andy wakes up first, ever the healthiest, and heads out for a jog after saying hello to me. Patrick wakes up next, downing the cream cheese bagel I got him in a haze of drowsiness, and I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t watch. My stomach rumbles, so I put on another jacket and curl in on myself. Patrick notices but doesn’t say anything. 

When Joe wakes, he rolls out of the van and walks around a bit, trying to get feeling back in his limbs. If he finds the puddle of half digested food and blood in the forest, he doesn’t say anything. My throat is killing me, and I’d kill for some ice cream, but god knows what’ll happen then. It’s a vicious cycle that features me dying at the end. Joe smokes and I watch silvery wisps leave his cracked lips like a promise. 

When Andy returns from fitness land, the show’s on the road again. Scenery swipes past us faster than the spinning of a record. Packed between stacks of cds and instrument cases, Andy blasts Blue Oyster Cult from the speakers while Joe plays a solo on a clarinete I didn’t know we had. 

“You can play clarinet?” I ask, shifting from my uncomfortable position half laying on the floor. 

“I can now. Some girl gave it to me last night.”

“Oh. Nice.” I shrug in dismissal, crawling over to where Patrick sat reading a beat up copy of The Outsiders. Pulling him onto my lap, he sighs and shakes his head with a smile while I play with the bit of pudge on his lower belly. When the song ends, Andy claps for Joe. I whistle from my place in the back. 

My head is still spinning from earlier, but Patrick’s body is warm against mine and when things get to be too much I just bury my nose against the back of his neck. Joe figures his way through the clarinet and gets actually pretty good at it by the time we’re stopping for lunch. Patrick’s halfway through his book, and sweltering summer is deep set in our van. When we get out, Andy goes straight to the most hipster-fruit-lets-get-high-on-kale joint in the place. Joe heads for some pizza with Patrick, and I stop by a coffee shop for a small looking salad and some zero calorie tea. I ask for it in a cup so Patrick will think it’s sugary coffee or something. 

Joe buys a ton of soap and shampoo from one of the little stores, and when he shows us his bag, we’re all straight up ecstatic. No matter how much soap we have, it’s not enough. Far too many nights spent in sweaty bars. 

Andy swallows a chunk of vegan muffin thing. “What if Donald Trump gets off on public humiliation and that’s why he’s such an asshole?”

Patrick shrugs. “I suppose that’s a nice thought. One less racist. I think I’d rather have a good intended, kinky Trump than a Trump that means what he’s been saying.”

The rest stop cafeteria is noisy and filled with people, but it isn’t overwhelming. I begrudgingly take a bite of lettuce, deciding to pretend I don’t notice Patrick staring at my plate. 

“That almost makes me hate him a little less. It doesn’t, but it almost does.” Joe speaks, tapping his thumbs against the table.

I furrow my brows. “What if him and Sarah Palin are in on it together?”

“Good for them.” Andy nods to himself. 

Eventually, we depart back to our ride and coast off to our next gig. Spend the night ripping our fingertips off on guitar strings or rubbing off the skin of our hands on drumsticks, throw up in the night, rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Joe is actually really good at clarinet. Every show feels a little different from the last. Maybe it’s the shade of the lipstick the one bleach blonde is wearing, or the way they scream the lyrics. Maybe it’s measured in the amount of crowd dives fans make, or the amount we make. Maybe it’s the amount of food I eat in front of Patrick before throwing it up in the nearest bathroom. There’s no telling what it is, but I love it. 

I love all the fans. I love this band. It means the world to me. I look over at Patrick, in his ripped up jeans and cherry lips flush against a microphone. He doesn’t know my real name, yet we’ve been living together in a shitty van for the past few weeks. That’s terrifying. I’m so, so sorry.

The next night, we’re lucky enough to get two motel rooms. Patrick and I relish the utter luxury of taking a real shower, and together at that. With fancy hotel soaps and fluffy white towels, clean sheets and fresh air. His skin is baby soft and I’m falling head over heels. Pressing a kiss to his pale pink lips, arm wrapped around his waist, we fall into bed and exchange warm sliding kisses that turn into something more.

His body is so soft, so plushy, all rounded edges and beautiful curves. I want to trace every one of them with welcomed kisses and lingering hands. I want him to feel as lovely as he is, so, so beautiful. 

“Jason, I can stick my fingers through the spaces between your ribs.” He whispers out in a shaky voice.

I press another kiss to his neck, mouthing around for the right place. “Alright.”

He places his hands harshly against my shoulders, pushing me away from him. “No. Seriously. Are you sure you’ve eaten enough today?”

I sit up on his thick thighs, counting calories. Somewhere around seven hundred? That’s more than enough, right? “Yeah. Have you?”

He swallows roughly. “I guess.”

I wouldn’t mind if he had a little more, though. This whole situation is incredibly fucked up on so many different levels. I gesture to his body under mine. “Can I?”

“I… I don’t think I can, not tonight. I’m sorry.”

I roll off him and hug him to me, running open hands all over. “Don’t apologize. I want you to feel good, no matter what it is.”

He nods like he’s heard it all before, which he has, and curls into my touch. I fall asleep to the soft curve of his hips, the squish of his inner thighs.

###

The tour is over before we know it, and life resumes as normal. Patrick and Andy go back to college. Joe goes back to… whatever Joe does all day. Now featuring a clarinet. Andy and Emma have reunion sex, a lot of it, as Patrick has let me know, and I keep bringing dumb pastries to the library for him every morning. 

My next book is released. Patrick doesn’t shut up about it for days, showing me every single line he likes, admiring and praising every page. It’s disorienting, more than a little weird. But it’s home.


	10. which came first, the love or the lyrics?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> patty gets pissed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaah sorry it took so long n its kinda short,,,, i have a math regents tomorrow and im kind of just a tired eighth grader, man. school is ending in a week, i promise tons of updates and hopefully a conclusion by the end of summer.

Stepping into too hot baths, full this time, to ease the ache in my shoulder blades from constantly sitting in desk chairs and jumping off stages. Phone still in hand, as always, but more drizzling bubbly water onto open documents than liking posts. Hot soapy water spreading throughout my body like honey over toast, filling up any broken cracks. It's an overcast Wednesday afternoon, I'll be picking Patrick up for dinner later on. May as well smell like bergamot and lotus with baby soft skin. Jesus, I'm a faggot.

Piles of dense white bubbles curl around my toes atop swirling lilac waters, steam coasting up and off the crystalline surface. I write of shredded papers and broken desks, schools driven by money and discourse rather than education and empowerment. It's sad to think most of my readers are still going through it. With the thought, I open up my blog.

Dear everyone, but especially students who are fans of mine,

It's kind of incredible to step back and take a look at my life, and how far I've come only because of you. I wanna make it known that no matter how far I come in fame, I'll always see you as individuals. I listen to your stories, watch you grow, and I'm so proud. I hope that didn't sound creepy. It's just that every fan letter is from a unique person, someone with neighbors and a favorite color and different views than everyone else. I hope I'll never stop seeing you this way, as almost a cross between an army and a support group, each member completely different from the rest. 

But you do have things in common, one being that many of you are still braving the wicked waves of the school system. In the book I'm currently working on (yes, I'm working on another, and yes, I want it out to you soon), I tend to relive a lot of old memories of my own schooling. And man, did it suck. Boring, impractical classes, endless and everyday bullying, school lunches spent throwing up in bathroom stalls, and skipped classes wasted on tears in the nearest janitor's closet. I have no idea how you guys do it, it must be worse now than it was for me. Just know that I believe in you, and I love you, and I thank you once more for sticking by me.

Love,  
Pete Wentz

The water runs cold. Shadows turn into night skies. I step out.

###

A phone call received with freezing fingers on a bridge over frigid water. Deep winter sets into the metal bolts holding my underfoot in place. My scarf threatens to fly off in the chilled winds. I pick up the phone.

“Jason? Are you gonna pick me up?” 

Oh fuck. “Oh fuck.” I say. “Please don't be mad at me.”

Patrick sighs into the microphone. Distant college dirtbag chatter can be heard in the background. “I'm not mad. I just kinda gotta get across campus and its negative a million out.”

I decide not to mention how I've been sitting out on a bridge for the past hour. “I'll be there in a second. Well, like five minutes. Hold on.”

“Thanks, bye.” After my own farewell, I'm speeding towards his campus. 

Wintertime flurries sweep past me in little hurricanes of soft fluffy whites. It’s quite a blur, the routine of driving to his different classes being set into my mind enough times that I work on autopilot. It hurts to think that he had to walk home if he couldn’t catch a ride, and in this weather. I’m more than happy to do the job. 

When I pull up to the sidewalk, he walks out with a guitar case in hand and a smile on his face. It makes my heart melt into puddles of warmed snow. After shoving the case into my backseat, he settles down in the passenger seat. Hellos and kisses are exchanged on chilled out lips, and he cranks up the heat with one hand while holding mine with the other. 

“Alright. We should be heading to the short stone building. The one that I take literary studies in?” 

I nod. “Got it.” 

After meeting up quickly with a professor to pick up some papers. We’re on our way to the nearest Chinese place.

Patrick furrows his brow, fingers tapping against the dashboard. “When are we gonna have band practice next? We haven't had a gig in a while.” 

“I'm… Really busy right now. When all this is over, it will be in a couple months or so, we’ll do open mics for days. I promise.”

He looks frustrated, and more than a little offended. Though he merely says something, he bites his tongue, settling for an “Alright.” He doesn't speak another word until we’ve arrived.

Warm air brushes his honey hair back, the smell of Chinese tea and cuisine flooding the homely little restaurant. Polite chit chat travels throughout the room with tables placed around paper lamps and bamboo pots. “Ah, I love this place.” He speaks softly. Flute music plays us out as we take a seat. 

He orders an elaborate sushi platter, and we add in a few more specialty rolls. It's enough for both of us. I let the complimentary tea coast back my cracked lips, filling in the seams of my rough throat. I almost blush when I look back at him. Cherry cheeks smiling, his eyes twinkling. A cozy sweater 

“Did you see, Wentz posted a new blog entry?”

His sky eyes widen, fresh apple lips drawn into a smile. “Of course! I was one of the first to respond.” He looks quite proud of himself.

“Ah?”, I ask, “And what did you say?”

He pulls out his phone. “Here. I'll show you.”

He hands it over, and i recognize his username immediately. I think I've responded to him before, several times maybe, and over a course of years. Who woulda thought. Plus, a username like idsellmyfirstborntochicago is hard to overlook. 

“Hey Pete. Take all the time you need with the book, we’re all insanely excited, but we know perfection takes time. As far as students, I'm currently double majoring at my dream school, and there's no way I'd be here without you. I wouldn't be at this college or alive at all without you, for that matter. I hope you know what an inspiration you are to us. Take care xoxo - Patrick”

I chuckle, handing his phone back. “Do you think he’ll respond?” He asks, baby blues doubtful.

“Oh, I'm sure he will, sweetie.” Damn straight I will.

Patrick tells me about the history of paper and the inks put on it, his lips forming words, blood coming up to the surface of a cut. I let the words flow through me like a bad cold, but so much better. My mind gets caught between the paper lamps and his laugh, brain spilling out onto the oriental placemats. It’s uncomfortable but nostalgic.

We leave with the taste of rich green teas still sticking to the insides of our mouths, winter snowflakes making frostbite on gentle exposed skin. I think I’m gonna freeze to death. Good. Small car interiors, sinking into anxiety, but a good kind. Shuddering jitters, not unwelcome to already quaking heart strings. He shivers, frosted hair melting in the dry heat. 

When we get home, I’m discarding the feel of his soft sloping shoulders for rigid laptop keyboards. Ideas run dripping wax down the inside of my body, burning all the soft, sodded tissue. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m running out of ways to say I’m sorry. He sleeps in the next room on a platform of clipboards and broken guitar strings, rusty cords cutting into his silk skin. I think I’m gonna throw up. I hate leaving him. Writing comes first. Writing comes first.

Writing comes first.


	11. the soft boy fights back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE - BLOOD, BRUISING. ALSO SOME SUICIDE AND SELF HARM SPRINKLED ON TOP LIKE CLASSY PARSLEY ON AN ITALIAN DISH
> 
> aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa IM FUCKING USELESS LITERALLY STOP READING MY STORIES BECASYE I S U C K NAD I SHOULD DIE TM

“Patrick, that's really fucking dumb.” I tap away, editing a few later chapters. My new book should be out in a matter of weeks. 

Dimmed basement lights fail to illuminate his ocean blue eyes. He gives me a frustrated look, leaning back into Joe’s cum-stained couch. “What do you want from me, Jason?”

I flinch at the name. Dammit. “No one is going to listen to a song titled ‘Where is Your Man Tonight.’” And it's true. Patrick’s barely legal, far from what one would consider a man. It's a sappy, campy, whiny song. Even if I tried to spruce it up with somewhat witty self-depreciation and teenage problems.

“I could say the same thing about ‘Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes.’”

Ouch. Flies and moths form tornadoes of ideas around us, mosquitoes cutting through the clouds and fog. “It's creative. It's original. I would know, I'm a fucking writer.”

Joe and Andy whisper to each other on the other scuffed up love seat. Rain leaks through Joe’s roof and drips down to his already moldy basement. Andy makes a concerned expression, leaning to Joe’s ear once more. I can't hear them over Patrick’s voice, increasing in volume. “A writer who won't let his fucking boyfriend read anything he writes.” Soft features screwed into disgust.

You've read all I've written, I want to say to him. My books are displayed on your bookshelf, my quotes scribbled down on your binder. I work so hard, every day, for you. Youve said I saved your life, for christ’s sake. Now I'm worried I'll end it. 

Doll eyes contorted, painted cherry lips curled into a snarl. “Got nothing to say? Wonder why. Wonder why you can afford all you can, always working away with your little computers, never showing us any of the results. What are you doing all day, huh, Jason?”

Actually, Joe knows it all. Joe's been proofreading my stuff before I send it to my editor. I send him a glance, but he knows to keep quiet too. You’d know it too if I wasn’t such a pussy. Hurt egos melt to rage as a fucking gumdrop keeps looking down on me.

“Look, if you can't trust me with writing, then you can't trust me with anything.” I speak, slamming the lid of my MacBook and standing up.

He stays still, not nearing. “Maybe I don't.”

Andy swallows. “Hey, guys? --” 

I take a shaky breath. I shouldn’t say this. “Wouldn't be the first time I loved someone who hated me. What else did I expect?” I snap out. The moths slow down, lining the floor like an army. Mosquitos sticking to my skin.

“You expected some sort of fairy tale love story, didn't you? Like the kinds you need to tell yourself to look at yourself in the mirror.”

I scoff, ready to rip my skin off. “Yes, Patrick. I've always looked for some suburban white picket fence. Get your apron on.”

He takes a step closer, nearly shaking with rage. “You're so fake, Jason. Everything is fake. I'm done with all your little breakdowns. I’m done putting your pieces back together for you to throw yourself off another building.”

My heart swells with anger. “You're right. I'm a fake, everything's artificial. My name’s not even Jason!”

He takes a step back, summer blue eyes expanding, heart in his throat. Then, an expression of pure hatred. The last sight I see before his fist collides with my left eye.

###

When I wake up, it's in a pool of my own blood, used condoms and drowned bugs floating throughout. I look up to see Emma. Go figure. 

A scratched up The Smiths record plays on Joe’s old record player, the OG “Sorry” coasting through my ears. It beats to the rhythm of Emma nodding her head, grey blue locks swinging to collect dust. My head pulses, blood rushing up to the surface of my face and spilling out onto my shirt. It's just then that I start drowning in the blood. 

Choked on body fluids, I try to stand up, but the head rush is too much. A blood clot falls from my nose, a wet smack to the floor. I can only imagine how bruised Patrick’s hand is, redpurpleblues up to the surface of baby soft knuckles, I wanna kiss each blossom of color, follow the line up to double bubble lips and --

I don't wanna think about him.

I look to Joe, smoking a skinny cigarette he probably bummed off Emma and sifting through old records. He looks at me and looks away. Andy sits with her in his lap, fingers dancing up her sides. When did she get here? How long have I been out? None of them rise to help. I sit, knee deep in my own blood, the smell of sex heavy in the room.

I look to Andy, still seated on the dusty ground myself. A centipede crawls over my fingers. I let him. “Did you guys just do it in here?” 

Emma laughs, a sound deep behind smudged blue lipstick. “Had a threesome with Joe. Wish you were there, it was great.”

 

“How long have I been out?”

Andy shrugs. “Approximately 17 hours.”

I nod. Holy shit. The image of Joe and Andy fucking her into the old leather couch, me laying half dead next to them floods my mind. Did they use my blood as lube? I shake the idea off. 

After great difficulty, I stand up with the help of a nearby guitar stand. Everything hurts, though my heart and my face are the two main concerns. 

“Joe, throw me your phone.” I ask, needing a mirror to check the damage. 

He does, a giant smartphone aimed straight at my chest. It hits hard and smashes on the cement ground. I pick it up, only cutting my fingers on the shards a bit. What’s a few 

Patrick-- dammit, don't think about it -- asked me how I could look at myself in the mirror. The answer being, I don't. I feel so disconnected from this bruised, bloody monster. My head spins, eye swelled shut with purple blue night skies. I look like shit. The pitter patter of red raindrops against cracked cement floor pounds off beat to the song. 

Hurling the phone back at Joe, I only smash a few records in the process. I sit across from Andy, feeling Emma up right in front of me. Boobs are pretty cool, I guess.

I open my mouth, but Andy stops me. “You deserved that. You're an asshole.” 

I swallow a mouthful of blood and regret. It scratches down the back of my throat and floods my lungs.

Emma nods. He doesn't stop touching her breasts. “I know.”

Emma shrugs. “Joe told us the whole story. We won't tell him if you don't want us to.”

“Think I'm gonna kill myself tonight.” I say. And I mean it. And I know they know I mean it.

Andy exhales, dropping his hands from Emma’s tits. Joe walks over, pressing a kiss to her bubblegum lips where she sits on Andy’s lap. No one says anything.

I sit there for a while, a steady stream of maple syrup dark red blood dripping from my nose into my lap. They start fucking again. I watch it like a movie. Andy crawls between her legs, Joe leaning over to kiss down her neck. She moans, thighs twitching, eyes rolling back into her head. My blood on the floor next to me, Joe’s broken phone sitting on an old record player. It skips every so often, the aged ballad playing. I look at Andy’s dick, Emma’s lips wrapped around it.

And I get up to leave.

It’s a blur, picking up my keys and not resisting the thought of digging them into my wrists. I'm not careful on the roads, driving too fast and too recklessly. My entire body aches, arrows and spears piercing every soft spot I have left. I return to an empty home, blinds closed and doors locked tight. It's a flat shrouded in darkness, city views of overcast skies not helping ease the ache. 

I wanna get cleaned up, but his strawberry body wash is still in my shower. I wanna sleep, but my sheets still smell like him. I don't know how to escape this.

Except I do. But I can't, not really. Even if the - the love of my life doesn't give a shit about me, there are millions of sad kids out there counting on me. The thought makes me wipe away dried blood from my bottom lip and pull out my phone.

I type up on my blog.

 

Hey guys.

I hope you guys know you're the reason I'm still alive. When things get tough, really tough, you're always there. Better than any friend I've ever had. Not that I deserve any.

Recently, I was in an abusive relationship. I was the abuser. I was mean and neglectful. I lied through my teeth to the one I loved the most. He was in the right when he left me. I hope he’s in a safe place, and eventually heals from the wounds I've inflicted. Despite never having felt so alone, I know it had to happen.

If any of you are in an abusive relationship, I encourage you to seek help. It always gets better, or so I've heard. You're all so strong. I love you.

Xoxo pete

I fall back onto my couch, feeling blood and dirt piling up on my skin. I feel so, so gross. There's no way I'm gonna make it through tonight if I get any more reminders, though. It's really, really shitty. 

I want to use big words, flowery language, metaphors. I want to say that it's a poetic tragedy, themes of romance, friendship, forgiveness. Remorse and acceptance decking the halls. Language is all know I know. But no amount of purple prose will make this any better. 

This isn't some sort of story book, he got that right. There's no last page, no happy endings, pink ink. No one’s reading this to their children as a bed time story, singing it as a lullaby through raspberry lips. No quotes from this damn story are printed out for stick ons in a suburban white family’s dining room. I’m not deserving of any of it. 

I look through the comments on my post. “Idsellmyfirstborntochicago: Thanks Pete. I went through a similar situation today. There was just too much lying and neglect in our relationship, I couldn’t deal with him anymore. I know I’m better off without him, but it’s still kinda hard. You’ve been there for me, though. Thank you.”

I choke back tears, but respond. “I’m so proud of you. I hope you get better and move on. You’re so strong. You’ve always been there for me, too.” I wonder if it would be too much to add an I love you. I decide it doesn’t matter what he or anyone else thinks. I respond again. “I love you.”

I feel like I should cry about it, I should cut my arms up to smithereens and down all the pills in my house. Throw myself off of the nearest four story building, throw up the blood in my stomach, have a bad enough panic attack to knock myself out for the next few days. That’ll come later. Right now, I’m running on adrenaline and last night’s coffee. Right now, I’m too numb and damaged to be properly sad.

Gimme a few days, and I’ll be a mess. I promise.


	12. Bows and Blades (and im sorrys)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - VERY GRAPHIC SELF HARM SCENE, AND NEGLECT (KINDA)

When the only person I’ve ever loved is so far away, a lot of things get harder.

 

Sleep, for one. The ability to fall asleep in a bed half empty significantly decreases, memories of love too heavy on the scene. Or even getting home, bugbites all up my body from staying out too late, clothes days old with adventures out. Out anywhere. Eating becomes irrelevant, other than packets of tea and whatever the bartender brings me. Reisting. Resisting anything, the blades or the diet pills, drugs and alcohol, letting myself down. Linear scabs, scars, piling up to mountains on wrists, thighs, all down my front. I’m not counting the pounds anymore, but I’m sure they’re falling off quickly enough. Life’s a hangover, always the aftertaste of cheap liquor and cheaper gin setting deep into my bones. Everything gets more difficult. 

The thing that’s gotten the most difficult, though, is finishing that damn book. It feels so superficial and selfish to place the importance of a bound paper stack over the whole life of another, but it's true. I love my fans, to the world and back, they deserve to have this. It's not really a gift anymore, it's something many of them need. To keep going, keep living, keep recovering. And who am I to take that away from someone? 

Oh, wait. 

That's even worse. I can't just mope around like some emo kid, pretending that it's everyone else's fault. It is my fault this time, not some self deprecating joke, or a sappy scene kid fanfic. I hurt someone who's probably dragging more blades over veins and skipping meals because of me and the actions I could have corrected, but didn't. I don't wanna think about it too hard. I'll kill myself if I do that. Gotta get this book out before that, at least.

I take my mind off of it by walking five miles, dead of winter, to the nearest dollar tree. Snow crunches under vinyl boots, frosted wind whipping thin jackets and bringing tears to caramel eyes. The cheerful store Thirty dollars buys more lipgloss, hair bows, and Lisa Frank stickers than you could imagine. Pretty pink bubble stickers and strawberry red lollipops. Frills on socks, sparkly hair bands, sickly sweetness. Emma will be elated. 

I want fake and artificial, I want to use her. She likes it anyways. I don't wanna think about heading to the local bakery every morning for his pastry, or the stack of library books on my coffee table that are overdue, the extra amp set out in my music room. Give little thought to the fucking mountain dew in my fridge, I fucking hate that shit, it’s gross, I don’t wanna think about gross mountain dew or him or me or anything. What I want to do is blow my brains out against the nearest brick wall. 

Walking out with a plastic bag full of makeup and bows and driving to Joe’s house is simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing I’ve done since… you know. Streets pass me by in a blur of memories and broken promises. I’m supposed to be picking him up from guitar class, but instead I’m driving to make out with his roommate’s girlfriend.

Joe’s house is a shithole as always. He has enough money but not enough willpower to get a new place. Andy’s dark red Honda Accord stands out against chipped paint and snow like a fucking Van Gogh against “poetic” art school shit. When I walk in, sounds of Pearl Jam are drifting up from the basement. I wonder if anyone’s even been in the other rooms of this house. 

Emma sits pretty on the cracked, fake leather couch, pushing up her sunglasses in the dimmed light basement and scrolling through her rose gold phone on full brightness. A part of me loves her. I don’t even know who the fuck she is, if she’s in college or if she’s gone to school at all. I don’t care, I think.

Her eyes light up when she sees the bag, a quick “Thankyousomuch,” leaving glossy magenta lips when she shuffles through the contents. I catch Joe out of the corner of my eye, holding a lighter up to a spoon. Andy looks through Joe’s records, soft, strong hands scanning over the worn in cardboard cases. Andy, Patrick’s roommate, Jesus Christ I hate thinking that name. 

“How’s he been?” I ask, watching Joe shoot up with rusty, overused syringes.

Andy’s voice is comically high as always. “Been watching Star Wars on repeat and eating nothing but Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Which is normal for him, he’s just sad now.”

I nod. “As long as he’s not hurting himself. Hey, speaking of that, Joe, throw me a blade.”

He does, and it almost hits Emma. I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if it did. The metal still shines under dust and grime, powdery cocaine still hanging onto the edge. I blow it off and roll up my sleeves. 

Andy sits down next to Emma, across from me. A spider crawls up the coffee table between us, over my scratchy handwriting and Patrick’s sheet music. Dammit. Andy speaks when the blade slices through my wrist. “I’d tell you to stop, but you deserve it.”

I nod, pressing it deeper into my skin and dragging down. Emma licks a lollipop, trying out eyeshadow colors on her arm while I slice up mine. Joe twitches on the floor, too high to care. The bloodstain from the incident, my blood, stays on the floor, rotting away. New blood, brighter now, falls to the cement floor. Cuts piling up on my wrists, blood streaming down, Emma’s lips against the hard candy, Joe laying on the floor. Andy kisses her, I cut a little deeper, she opens the seal on a new lipstick. This all feels so shitty. 

I open up my phone, now with shaking hands (too much blood loss) and open my paypal account. I donate a few thousand to a non discriminatory homeless shelter just before the blood from my wrists drips onto the screen. Now it feels right. I cut a little deeper. 

Emma finishes the pop and gets a blue one next, her tongue turning purple like the bruises on her neck. I cut and cut and cut and no one says anything because it doesn’t matter. Emma stands up to put on a Prince record, and that’s when it starts to feel wrong again. I can’t see the skin of my arms between the slices, but it’s too numb to hurt. It pours out blood in time with my heartbeat, and I know that means I hit a vein, but I don’t give a shit and neither does anyone else. 

I now do something that is so narcasistic, so arrogant, so incredibly assholish and mean. I ask for something that isn’t mine to have. 

I give up, give in, I ask for forgiveness. 

The book’s fucking done. I don’t care anymore. But I type up a note for the very last page. 

Dear Patrick,

A part of me hates saying your name. A part of me wants to moan it from under you, or scream it from the rooftops. And that line alone tells you how much I don’t deserve you.

I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I played you like a game, used you like a toy, like an abusive lover, like I did. I tore you down to build myself up, I lied, I did so many things I shouldn’t have done. 

You’re more than any stack of pages, or kids screaming in mosh pits. I am in love with you, and it’s your job to break my heart. A part of me wants you to be strong enough to not take me back. A part of me knows I abused you bad enough for you to come running back. I’m running out of ways to say I’m sorry, and reasons for you to love me again. 

I’ll stop bringing you breakfast and writing your papers, driving you to classes and writing words for your music, not because I wanna leave you without help, but because I know you don’t need it. If you want me to fuck off and die, just let me know. 

You’re all that matters. You don’t have to write back. 

Xoxo Pete. (ex-Jason)

Written in one shot, from start to finish. I send it to my publisher before reading it over, and decide I’m never going to. The book is getting printed.


	13. Forgiveness? (Our Reality)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ive got a lot to say so i think im gonna make an authors note after this but if youre reading this
> 
> im holding you hostage until someone draws fanart of this fuckin mess
> 
> come on. cute soft librarian patrick, emo angsty writer pete. pls draw this fr me ill reward you with a one shot of your choice im bein serious draw me somethin ill write you whatever you want
> 
> angst fluff smut i dont discriminate i dont care what kink

I only take my car to the bakery because I’m afraid the cinnamon bun would cool off if I walked to the library.

It’s not for me, of course, my knees shake when I walk because I haven’t eaten in four days, but if there’s any chance of winning him back, it’s all in presentation.

The place smells like heaven, filled with cozy couples in knitted scarves with blushed cheeks. I ask for the freshest, warmest cinnamon bun they have. Pay for it, drop a couple hundred in the tip jar, and walk out with the toasty, comfy brown paper bag. Run into the coffee shop from across the street, pick up Patrick’s order and my black dark brew, run back to the car. Drive a few miles to the little library on the outskirts of Chicago, a light in the otherwise defrosting winter gray scale.

Short story long, my book will be in stores about a month or two from now. Being the author, I got the first prototype-ish copy as soon as it was printed. Signed the inner cover, note printed all pretty in silver on the last page. I’m not certain if it’ll bring him back or ruin his life, but for the first time in a long time, I’m feeling optimistic. 

Frost crunches under my dumb platform boots as I walk up to the steps, swallowing down my pride with the rest of the diet pills and ativan. Wash it down with rubbing alcohol. I open the door.

It’s a painful wave of familiarity. Warm vanilla candle scent floating throughout the already warm bookshelves, kids holding picture books with snowy mittens. He sits behind the desk, as always. Shea butter hands curled around the sleeves of a book, blood red lips curled into a smile. A smile dropped as pond eyes descend upon the likes of me. 

Cozy knitted sweater shoulders tense up, book dropped from twitching hands. “What do you want? Get out.” He whisper yells, still catching the attention of every concerned parent in the area. 

Think of the situation. A stick thin goth dude clad in leather and chains, jacket patched up, well worn Metallica shirt. A short, pretty pudgy blonde librarian hiding behind corduroy pants. Who the fuck wears corduroy? Anyways, the short soft kid is backing away, threatened by Goth Dude. Who wouldn't be concerned?

I take a few steps towards the desk, he backs up just as much. Like some sort of peachy kicked puppy, wide blues filled with fear, The copy in my hands hits the mahogany surface, sliding over to him. “I pulled some strings. First ever copy of Wentz’ new book. The one that's coming out in two months. Signed.” I place the paper bag and coffee cup next to it. 

I turn to walk away as soon as his eyes widen. I hear a whispered “Oh my god.” Shuffling pages.

Job well done.

###

Winter snow melts. No budding leaves or fresh green grass, but less colds and more rainy days. I invest in a black raincoat, which may be my best decision ever. Going out in a black raincoat to play Pokemon Go (in the rain). This is, of course, the day after potentially revealing to your best kept secret and biggest mistake that you’re their favorite writer. Justpetewentzthings. 

I feel like some sort of crafty kid who’s staying up too late, tapping away on their gameboy for hours, until the sun comes up. Anticipating something, an album release, a date, a trip. Falling asleep at 8am and waking up at 4pm. Feeling so incredibly groggy and exhausted, but happy jittery and excited for the day to come.

I buy an agender flag cupcake from a vegan punk rock cafe and write blog posts from their window side set up. No one questions you in places like these. Come in in full victorian dress, or Kurt Cobain’s last flannel. Almond buttercream frosting, the first calorie to pass my lips in a number of days. And it supports trans kids everywhere. Pat yourself on the back, you skewed perception of Mr. Nice Guy. Rain falls down the window, reflective water drops clinging to smooth, cool glass. It creates a symphony of wet on cement, half drowned flower pots, leaky ceilings that’ll never be repaired. Mold blossoming throughout run down apartments, polluting kid’s lungs with asthma and the cancer they won’t get from eating lead paint alone. 

Standing outside, cupcake wrapper in compost bin (who the fuck keeps a compost bin outside their cafe? Those smart fuckers) lets the rain soak into my skin, deeper down, cool concoctions flushing between every vein and layer of tissue. Liquid snaking in spaces between organs, flooding skin lining and threatening to spill through pores. Shake it up, let it absorb all the dirt and grime, once clear cloudy day serum blackened and choked with dust. Then, let it come up and out my mouth, washing out curses and prejudice. I’m shouting used bath water in an empty theatre. 

Clouds clear, and it’s time to go home. Things are looking up, the number on the scale falling down. 

###

A text message received at five pm, when I’m dead asleep on the floor, linoleum sending fingers between the notches in my back. Ring. Ring. Ring. Long pause…… Ring. 

I rub double vision from scarred corneas and pick up cracked phone screens with shaking hands. Texts from Emma’s sugary rikkuma phone case. 

Emma: It’s Joe.  
Emma: dude, this is serious. Get over here right now or ill… put you in therapy. Or an asylum. Or a hospital, whichever will take you.   
Emma: im not fucking around you need to get over here   
Emma: its about him.

I don’t respond before slamming headfirst into the side of my car. 

It’s a miracle I don’t die every time I drive, dry throat and blurring vision turning two highway lines into seven, every traffic sign and passing car just another splotch of paint that my mind’s picasso creates. Rain hits my front window like knives, sharp and relentless. Regret and morbid anticipation crushes my esophagus, all the juices flowing down and clogging up other bits of my body. There are so many possibilities that my mind can’t focus on one long enough to let it all play out. Speed limits get swerved left as I nearly crash into Joe’s house. 

Stood up too quickly getting out of the car, nearly fainted on my way up. I break the second rotting step up to his front door with my fat ass, boot sinking down to the sodded dirt underneath. I almost fall back into cement. My hand catches on brass doorknobs, opening and slamming behind me. It smells like mildew and dry wall, cobwebs clinging to every corner and edge. Harsh windy rain beats against the house, every board creaking with the pressure. But I’ve only seen a few. No one spends any time in Joe’s actual house.

The heartbeat in my ears gets drowned out by the sound of steps up from the basement. A figure emerging from drab but oh so familiar settings. The sight of Patrick, work clothes, he just got out. He approaches, steps up real close, blood red lips, peach hair, sapphire eyes, all these other sappy, overused and cliche descriptions of white people. Eyes narrow, skilled guitar hands curled into fists, and he’s grabbing at the edges of my black raincoat. To pull me in?

No, too harsh. I’m thrown across the room. A kick square in my back. 

It’s way more shock than actual pain. Patrick’s kinda weak, but he plays dirty, and he plays bold. The force sends me hurtling into the next decrepit room.

For the first time, I see Joe’s kitchen. Rotting, disgusting food, leaking faucets, ants and dust and breakfast cereal covering the floor. A small breakfast bar, the kind neighbourhood kids eat waffles on, talking about the day to come, sits untouched and uncared for. I lose the thought just in time to see Patrick push me in farther, kicking up shit from the floor with beat up vans. A few more punches to my chest open up my perspective to see more of the room. Ratty, thready curtains blow in intrusive frosted wind. Cupboard doors open and creaking high, shrill, piercing ears. His face is contorted and hurt, my mind is stuck to the sunset hair shrouding expressions of rage. Confusion grows between blood red lips carved into snarls and piles of lucky charms on gross tile floors. I deserve this. 

He doesn’t speak, only screaming and grunting and seconds from tears. It’s more pushing than any punching or kicking, exploring the house and each other in a whole new way. He pushes me through to a pseudo living room, all grungy, spongy carpets and well worn couches. It’s all untouched, from the open windows, to the tattered curtains. Heavy rain blows in and washes the counter below it, drowning cockroaches and growing mold. We’re both bewildered, trying to check out uncharted land while he still throws weak punches, a few rogue tears running down his cheeks. It breaks my heart. Would it be too fucking emo to say that it belonged to him anyways?

There are forget-me-nots embroidered on the aged plush chairs and there are hands at my throat, knocking my head up to see swirling nests of cobwebs. It hurts, more like trying to swallow down tears than scrapes and bruises, but it hurts and I’m sorry and I never meant for it to be like this. 

Soon enough it hurts for real, because he’s knocking me against stairs and my ankles get caught on wooden edges. His chest is heaving and my head is killing me. Eyes squeezed shut, nose crinkled, golden voice letting out choked sobs. I’m backing up, spiraling with the staircase, he follows close after. Like a high speed dance, leading each other around until you smash together and burn it down. It opens up to a hallway, doors cracked and flung open on either side. We spend too long there, just him half-heartedly throwing himself at me and me not being able to decide whether I should pull him close or push him away. He’s crying, pools running down rosy cheeks and falling to make mud with the dirt. I pull him through a door with me, and we’re left shaking and stuttering in a trashed bedroom.

He runs to me, knocking me to the empty box spring, different this time, less forceful. It's a bedroom, a place meant for peaceful rest, for love, for safety and domesticity. There are moths fluttering in every corner, and I can't feel anything but his warmth against me, papery wings folded around shrinking skeletons. The floorboards are creaking and the paint is chipping and he’s grabbing onto the fabric of my hoodie with emotional fists just to pull me in. Noxious fumes of drywall and mold close in, but I'm wrapping arms around him again after so long. The moths settle. I pull him closer. 

Tears on sweaters are little cost for the feeling of silky blondish hair coasting through the spaces between my fingers. His shoulders are shaking and it’s more than breathtaking, calming down to the rubber coating of my jacket. The rain outside comes in through the window, water drops clouding his glasses. It’s way too cold and his collared shirt shuffles with the draft. He nuzzles his head into my chest. 

He lifts his head, wiping tears off on sweater paws while I tighten my grip on his waist. Strong singer’s lungs strain against the heels of my hands when he inhales. The rim of his glasses digs into my neck as he, to my great surprise, peppers very small kisses over my collarbones. He moves up, each little spot of contact sending alarms of comfort and warmth to my head. Pressed up against me, on his tip toes, forehead leaned against mine. His eyes are still red but his lips are as always, and he speaks softly. 

“I hate you.” He says, but it’s filled with love and acceptance and forgiveness and //love//.

His lips still taste like strawberry gloss. 

###

(Extra)

We walk back down to find Joe jacking off in the corner of the room, but he turns back to smile, joining in with Andy and Emma to yell in happiness and give a few claps. Then he turns back around and continues to get himself off. 

Patrick’s hand is warm in mine when Emma speaks up. “Thank god. I don’t think Patrick could survive any longer without you.”

“Shut up.” He says with a smile. His voice is still rough and choked, but he leans against my shoulder nonetheless. 

Andy comes to sit next to Emma, pulling her onto his lap. They sink into the leather while Joe cums five feet away from them. Patrick leaves my side to run to the far edge of the room. He throws up all over the floor. 

I swallow harshly, deciding that this is just how things are. There’s cocaine on the floor, blades on every surface. My blood still stains the floor, condoms strewn about it. Joe’s cum, Patrick’s puke, Emma’s spit. This is our reality, where I’m Pete Wentz, the writer, and Jason, the rockstar. This is where only two people have seen Joe’s actual house, where we prefer an old, wet basement to one of my high end estates. “Does anyone wanna order some pizza?” I ask, as Patrick wipes his mouth off on sweater paws. 

“Sure.”


	14. another fucking authors note im sorry

oka y so a few things

i recently saw a post saying that authors are selfish for making a work that a lot of people love, pouring a lot of effort into it, and then just dropping it. that its unfair to the readers. a ton of writers saw that and got incredibly defensive and mocked the person who said that, but, seriously? it fuckin hurts when your favorite fics of all time where everything is perfect, they just end in the middle of the story with no explanation. like seriously, at least give a summary of what you were gonna write, or give some reasons as to why you didnt continue. like holy shit guys id never do that to you like yeah dear trick was kind abandoned but i mean it never had a plot and it wasnt well written so whats the point i mean,,,, probably the poetry is my first big project that i posted online, and i like to think that its stuck a cord with some people. but yeah holy shit those fucking writers making fun of someone telling the truth?? fuck man

i am going to finish this story. im going into highschool in like a week and my aunt and uncle are getting married in like five days and i still need to persuade my parents to get me concert tickets to see brand new and the frontbottoms and modern baseball at the,,, fuckin glens falls center i think idk hit me up if youre going theres just a lot on my plate rn

if yall didnt know i fuckin take school HARD even though i have no frIENDS which is why i WRITE THINGS ONLINE FOR VALIDATION FROM STRANGERS which is fine its what i love doing but jesus christ

my school blog is punkrockstudyblr.tumblr.com and my main is punkandghostly.tumblr.com and i also have a fuckin pro ana blog who would have fucking guessed, i have a gore blog, a pastel blog, and a kink blog,, so just hmu if you want any of those lol fucking kill me

also i entered the fall out boy creations challenge and posted my entry on here so thats a big reason i didnt work on this story, i was pouring all my time and effort into that for a fucking month and i kinda need to rest for a second, and though this story is about to end, i already have another idea for another story so yeeehaw 

in conclusion, i am going to fucking finish this story im sorry its taking so long, i already have another idea for a long ass fic floating around in my mind so stay tuned, and heya,, stay safe stay healthy stay street xoxo


	15. the shitty but expected end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, so, im kinda sorry becayse this is mostly a cop out but, BUT, STAY TUNED BC AT THE END I HAVE A BIG QUESTION TO ASK YOU NERDS

Everything’s okay.

Well, not everything’s okay. Depression isn’t fixed by just falling in love, eating disorders sure as hell aren’t, but… everything’s improved.

We’re in a studio. Like, a real studio, one with microphones and big boards of dials and buttons. I feel like a kid in a candy store, fascinated and ready to stick my paws on anything colorful. None of us really know what any of it does, but the sound that comes out the other end is a lot less shitty than you’d expect. Andy’s drumming sets the base for us to build off of, warm and familiar, but ever improved. Spreading out over horizons. Joe’s guitar riffs build sky-high-scrapers, flying above what we thought we were capable of. Writing has always been my forte, the one thing I let myself admit I’m good at. Somewhat fumbly, but as emotional and brutal as always. Patrick’s music writing skills, though, blew us all out of the water. It feels so good to make progress, to really create art and reach goals. It’s just like finishing a book, creating an album.

Touring is good too. We even upgrade to a tour bus. There’s still no fucking room but there’s a microwave and actual beds now, which is really more of a luxury to me than it should be. Honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Shows are more and less personal at the same time, but each one seems more exciting and memorable than the last. More personal because people are getting to know us better, through blogs, interviews, and lyrics. Less personal only because with more kids comes less time to spend with all of them. It’s a shitty prospect, but I suppose there are pros and cons. I hope we’ll always have enough time to connect with everyone who thinks we’re worth their time.

It’s a lot more surreal too, though, to be playing to so many kids. So many individuals who all care about our work, that’s insane. For me, it’s comforting. If they come to our show, it means they support us, right? It gives me the confidence to do crazier stuff on stage, because I know they’ll all back me up even if I make a total fool of myself. 

Emma tours with us now, too. Usually you can find her winding through the crowd or backstage, looking for someone or something to fuck. Which is just how she rolls. She knows Joe and Andy will claim her again within a day anyways. 

Okay, that part is just a little bit weird at this point. We can still only afford one tour bus for the four of us and some traveling tech dudes, so we learn to deal with it. Patrick and I make breakfast and do dumb couple stuff in the kitchenette while Andy and Joe spitroast Emma not five feet away, each of them moving like a well oiled machine. Kinda intimidating, but mostly it’s just what we do. Emma knows how to get what she wants, and she always does, is all I have to say. Usually on the kitchen table, too.

It’s a little unconventional, a little messy, but it works for us. Patrick’s cheeks are rosy again, Joe’s eyes a little less dead than usual. Andy is as Andy has always been, athletic and health conscious. Emma’s nails are, I suppose, on fleek, and she’s yet to catch an std. I guess I’ve stopped throwing up in gas station bathrooms. Hey, at least I tried. 

Maybe one day, Pete Wentz, the world renowned author, and Jason Bliss, international rock star to be will be the same person. For right now, they’re back to back, each other’s shadow. I’m sure some of the kids are already onto it. Patrick’s got it all figured out, though. 

I look over to him across a shiny black stage, marked and scratched up with years of dancing in boots and smashing guitars. Thick thighs moving to the beat, golden voice resonating throughout a giant stadium. Walking over to him is autopilot, arms around him is standard practice, nose buried in his neck is yesterday’s news. But, really, it’s just that poetry, right? All those years ago, when I met a college nobody with an affinity for dark books and brightly colored sweaters. When I sat down to listen to the writings of others, sucking out the creativity and letting it soften me into loving someone. Writing is what brought us here in the first place, isn’t it? Yeah, it’s probably the poetry. 

\----bonus sex for emma,, finally third person you fags---  
She opens the doors to a brand new house, devoid of furniture, but also devoid of the wear and tear of Joe’s old house. Her heels scrape against the hardwood floors, already scraping it up. “Is this it?” She asks, peach lips curling into a half moon smile. 

Andy nods. “This is it, darling.”

It’s only a matter of time before they get a bed. And some other stuff, like a totally killer toaster oven and a really cool fish tank, but that’s beside the point. 

The point is, this bed is wide and antique, a billowing lace canopy sheltering the little wonderland within. Lace and netting draping down over silky throw pillows and fluffy bedding. Emma feels like a goddess, feels like a queen. Satin slips with pretty trim slip over her figure, cascading and sheer to mid thigh. Hair dark chocolate, soft and spread out on deep red sheets. 

It really does feel like a movie, Joe over her, sea green eyes and thick brown hair. Someone must be standing from just the right angle, focusing artfully on the most beautiful parts. They aren’t fucking on basement floors anymore. They still could, if they so wanted to. But for right now, they’re happy getting caught up in the details. Andy joins too, two men over her, ready to please their princess. There’s warm candle light, rose petals.

Something warm and thick pools in Emma’s stomach, Joe’s hands gripped hard on her thighs, Andy’s lips nipping at her collarbones. Her eyes closed, glittering gold eyelids reflecting light like muted disco balls, or the backs of cds. Pleasure and release bubbles over, she feels it burn red and smoky, out of her satin dress and through the canopy above. It travels up, free of the house, their happiness and content that they built together. Andy, Joe, Emma. This is their kid of love, dirty but elegant, run-down and extravagant at the same time. For them, it’s home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so like PLEASE PLEASE PAY ATtention to this and leave a comment telling me what you like and what you want and shit. now that this hellfic is over, ive got a few other ideas bobbling around in my dumb head
> 
> 1\. I really wanna write this one. maybe multi chapter, a story about william beckett and ryan ross being Advanced Anorexic Kids and patrick wanting to be taken under their wing. lots of talk on the pro ana community, ana buddies, ethics and morality, health and relapse and support and recovery? maybe. 
> 
> 2\. a medical au. maybe pete is a head surgeon and patrick is an intern, maybe the other way around. i wanna explore the thoughts that must go through your mind when peoples lives are in your hands every day, and what its like to work in that setting. maybe gerard way and bert mccracken are always in the clinic for drug overdoses or something. if you want it, im sure i could make a worthwhile plot and more characters, ive got some ideas on that already
> 
> 3\. a highschool au. im a freshman now, the bullying has only juust started for me personally, and its only gonna go downhill. probably just using what im learning in my real life to construct a plot between peter adn ppat with the struggles of drug abuse, bullying, grades and college, self esteem, and falling in love
> 
> and as a final goodbye, i thank all of you guys for standing by me through all of this, and helping me as i write what could be considered a book. this was totally awesome, but its only the beginning, i swear. with practice, ill become a better writer, and i hope you stick around. love you guys xx


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